


meet me in the afterglow

by vixleonard



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Class Issues, Coming of Age, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gender Roles, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jealousy, Original Character(s), Political Alliances, Possessive Behavior, Sexual Tension, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-09-26 17:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixleonard/pseuds/vixleonard
Summary: Arya and Gendry grow up together at The Crossroads Inn under the "supervision" of the Brotherhood Without Banners, and the older they get, the more complicated their friendship becomes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a quick one-shot but...you know, I'm me so now it's a multi-chaptered behemoth. Unlike most of my stories though, I know where this is going and have a head start on the next parts, but it was just getting too long to post as one fic. Number of chapters may change (higher or lower) based upon how this works out. 
> 
> Title comes from the song "Afterglow" by Taylor Swift

Beric declares she cannot share a bed with Gendry anymore on her thirteenth name day. The entirety of the Brotherhood is at the Crossroads for the event, Jeyne and Willow having put together a special dinner with what little they have, and Anguy even gifted her a new bow. As far as name days since leaving Winterfell, it is easily the best she has had. At least until Beric pulls her aside and says she’ll be sleeping in Willow’s room from now on.

“What, why?”

“It’s not proper for a young lady to be sharing beds with men anymore, especially ones that are baseborn.” Arya is already opening her mouth to protest when he rushes on, “Sometimes the things we have to do are not fair, but it is the way things are. Gendry is a man grown, and if your lady mother or brother ever learn you shared a bed with him, they could think the worst of him.”

“But I’d tell them he didn’t! It’s not – He’s just my best friend.”

“And he can still be your best friend from down the hallway.”

Gendry doesn’t seem surprised when she tells him how Beric is forcing her to bed down with Willow from now on. Instead he nods, seemingly unbothered, and says, “Yeah, seems right.”

“Why? Why is it _right_?”

He flushes a bit as he stumbles over his answer. “Because people would think – you know, when men and women – It’s just – “

Arya scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I don’t know why everyone thinks you’d be ringing my bells just because we share a room.”

Gendry leaves her at the table with a groan, shaking his head.

Arya doesn’t sleep right for a month after that, unused to Willow’s soft breaths, the lack of solid warmth provided by Gendry’s body curled next to hers, and unfamiliar feeling of waking alone. She’d always woken up before Gendry, laying there quietly until he’d wake, mumbling a morning greeting against her ear, sometimes even nuzzling into her hair before fully aware of what he was doing.

He’s just her friend. But she misses it all the same.

* * *

Ned Dayne kisses her while checking the snares she’s set to try to help fortify the food supply at the inn just after her fourteenth name day. She’s shown him the best one to set for rabbits when he startles her by pressing his lips against hers.

She’d always thought she knew what she’d do if a boy tried to touch or kiss her without permission, but instead Arya remains stock still, uncertain what was happening or why he’d done it now.

He flushes a brilliant shade of red as he confesses how long he’s wanted to kiss her, how he never would have done something so forward if they’d met under different circumstances, how he wants to speak to her brother about her if she’ll let him.

“Speak to him about what?” 

“About – Well, about what men speak to ladies’ families about.”

Arya doesn’t consider Ned Dayne a man; until this moment, she hadn’t really considered him at all. He is just one of the ever-rotating assemblage of men and children who come into the inn. The only difference between him and the rest was he brought her books: histories, stories of queens and warriors, even some books from Essos about the Dothraki and magic of Old Valyria. It was really no different than how Harwin brought her sweets sometimes. 

Except Harwin never asked to speak to Robb about her and certainly never kissed her.

“And what’s that?”

“I’d – You’d like Dorne, I think. It’s different than the rest of Westeros. My aunt Allyria, I’ve already written to her and she thinks it’s a wonderful idea. I know Starfall is far from Winterfell, but it would – It would be an adventure, and you love adventure. We could – I’d give you all the adventures you’d want.”

It finally hits her what Ned is suggesting, what he wants from her, and it makes her stomach drop into her feet. She’s never wanted to marry _anyone_, and she certainly didn’t expect anyone to want to marry her. Sansa was the pretty one, the one who dreamt of marriage and romance. Maybe that had changed too. 

“I don’t – Thank you, I suppose, but I – I’m not sure I want to get married.”

Ned frowns. “But you’re a lady.”

“I’m not a lady.”

“Maybe not a lady like other ladies, but you’re still a lady. And I don’t mind it, that you’re not like other ladies. I don’t think it’s a bother at all.”

This may be Arya’s first proposal, but she isn’t sure your future husband should say how he isn’t bothered by the person you are. That certainly didn’t happen in any of Sansa’s stories.

“Am I a bother?” she asks Gendry later when she visits him in the forge as he repairs one of the brothers’ swords.

“Yeah, you can be a right pain in the arse,” he answers with a smirk, pulling the blade out of the fire and plunging it into a cooling barrel. The hiss it makes seems louder than usual. Everything seems _more_ than usual today.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He wipes at his forehead with the back of his arm. “I’ve got to get these done before they ride off again, so maybe we can talk about how much you bother me later so you’re not bothering me now.”

Hopping off the bench she’d been sitting on, Arya spits, “Fuck off!” before rushing out of the forge.

“Arya!” he calls after her with a laugh in his voice, but she refuses to speak to him for the rest of the night.

She also doesn’t tell Ned to stop coming with her when she checks her snares.

* * *

Sometimes Jeyne Heddle reminds her of Sansa. She’s good at things ladies are meant to be good at, though she doesn’t wear fancy dresses or pin up her hair in complicated ways, and she never avoids doing her duty even when it’s boring. Her temper can be short sometimes, especially when Willow backtalks her, and for an innkeeper, she isn’t exactly friendly, but Arya respects how she protects the little ones, how she finds places and food for them when there aren’t enough of either to go around. She isn’t pretty exactly, not like Sansa or their mother, but there is something about the solemn set of her plain face that reminds Arya of the women at Winterfell. Thoros, Beric, and the rest of the Brotherhood like Jeyne too, which is why they make certain none of the male guests bother her, but Arya’s seen Jeyne slam a kitchen knife into the hand of a man who grabbed at her ass, so it’s not as if she _needs_ them. 

“No one touches Jeyne without her permission,” Willow told Arya the first time she’d seen Jeyne thump a boy a few years older than them for trying to squeeze one of her teats. 

Arya thinks of that now as she watches Gendry and Jeyne pawing at each other in the kitchen.

She hadn’t been able to sleep, having offered up her portion of rabbit stew to one of the newer orphans who was so painfully thin he looked as if he’d drop at any moment, and so she decided to rustle around in the kitchen for some bread or vegetables. Jeyne doesn’t let anyone in the kitchen but Willow and one of the orphan boys who helps lifts the heavy sacks of flour, grain, and corn the Brotherhood brings them, but Arya is an expert at sneaking into kitchens, taught by Robb and Jon before she even knew her letters.

Gendry sits on a bench usually reserved for Willow when she peels potatoes, Jeyne straddling his lap. Her skirts are rucked up around her waist, the top of her gown pushed down to her waist. Gendry’s hands seem to span the entire width of her bare back, and the way they are kissing is nothing like the way Ned Dayne kissed her in the woods. It is only as she sees the way they seem to be squirming and wiggling that she realizes Gendry’s pants are around his ankles.

She’s seen people fucking before but this feels different. It makes her chest ache and her throat tighten and Arya doesn’t know what to do next. Everything inside her is going mad, and all the while Gendry and Jeyne keep fucking right in front of her.

Arya slips from the kitchen but rather than returning to her and Willow’s room, she goes outside. It is freezing cold, her breath steaming in the night air, but Arya barely feels it. She stumbles across the frost-coated grass towards the edge of the woods by the light of the full moon, and it is only when she’s hidden by shadows and the canopy of the trees that she releases everything inside her, the cry almost a howl, and somewhere in the darkness wolves answer her back with howls of their own.

* * *

The Brotherhood returns with spoils from robbing some Tyrell men, and Ned gives her a dress. It isn’t an odd thing exactly; there were clothes from merchants among the haul, and Jeyne and Willow were already parceling them out to the orphans, helping themselves to new boots as well. But the dress Ned gives her isn’t just any dress; it is a lady’s gown, the sort her mother might wear, and it is made of silks in the colors of House Stark.

“I thought you’d want something fancy when you see your family again,” he explains, only the crimson color of his ears giving away his embarrassment. “The snows have melted enough we should be able to reach Riverrun soon.”

It’s a beautiful gown, well-made and clearly expensive. The silk feels cool against her hands, and the grey of it reminds her of stones in the waters of the wolfswood. As Arya holds it, she tries to imagine her mother’s face when she sees her again, how happy she’d be to see her daughter looking like a lady instead of a messy-haired child.

“Thank you, Ned,” she murmurs, studying the embroidery around the neckline. “This was kind of you.”

“You even know how to put one of those on?” Gendry teases when he sees her holding it against her chest, helping Harwin and Anguy carry in the haul. 

She doesn’t, actually. Back when she’d worn dresses every day, they were children’s gowns, and even then, her mother or Old Nan or one of the maids helped her dress. In fact, until the day Yoren hacked off her hair and made her pretend to be a peasant boy, Arya had no idea just how little she actually knew. But still it hurts to have Gendry laughing at her, amused at the idea she might be able to pass as a true lady.

“I’ll help you!” Willow volunteers, a few of the orphan girls chiming in they’d help as well. Soon Arya is being hustled up the stairs to try on the gown, Jeyne shouting after them to not rip the gown in their haste.

The gown fits snug against her body, and Arya grunts as Willow tugs hard on the laces at the back, forcing the air from her body. Now that it’s on, Arya sees the neckline is lower than she thought it to be, the off-the-shoulder cut of it revealing the tops of her breasts. When Willow jerks hard on the laces again, Arya grunts in complaint.

“I still need to breathe!”

“Well then, Ned should’ve stolen you some stays because your tits are too big.”

Arya looks down the front of her, and, sure enough, Willow’s assessment isn’t wrong. Most of the time Arya doesn’t think about her tits at all, keeping them hidden beneath tunics or banded with lengths of linen, but in this gown, they are on full display, pushed almost painfully towards her collarbone, and the silk of the bust strains only there.

“I can try to let it out later,” Willow offers. “It really does suit you.”

“You look like a princess,” one of the orphan girls says before another orphan elbows her and says, “She _is_ a princess, stupid!”

Arya is not a princess. She isn’t even certain how much of a lady she is. But in this gown, she thinks she might pass as both.

Tom is singing when Arya comes out of the room, descending the stairs with slow, careful steps, holding up the skirts so she doesn’t tumble down to the floor. Her hair is long enough now that it falls past her shoulders, and it tickles the exposed skin of her shoulders. Willow and the girls are far ahead of her now, and Arya has the urge to flinch away when she sees eyes starting to turn towards her. She’d cross her arms over herself to hide if not for the fact that to do so would necessitate dropping the skirts, and there is too much material for her to move quickly.

Beric and Thoros are looking at her with matching expressions of…_something_ on their faces. It isn’t surprise or admiration like on Ned’s face or the lust on Tom’s as he continues to sing, smiling in a way that is borderline lewd. It reminds her of the way her father used to look at her sometimes, as if she wasn’t really there, as if they were remembering something else and she just happened to be there. 

“It fits,” she says, feeling dumb, her hands finally releasing their death hold on the skirts as she reaches the ground floor. 

“Lady Arya,” Beric begins before stopping, exchanging a glance with Thoros.

Harwin, Anguy, and Gendry come stumbling into the inn with the last of the haul, all of them laughing. Harwin notices her first, stopping at once, his jaw dropping, and Anguy and Gendry collide into him, dropping the trunk they carry.

“What the hells is the matter with you?” Anguy exclaims before noticing her as well, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline.

Gendry notices her last, and Arya feels his eyes on her like a caress. When his eyes finally meet hers, he looks away immediately, and Arya feels the same way she did the night she saw him in the kitchen with Jeyne.

“It’s just a dress!” she snaps, feeling like a spectacle, like an animal taught to walk on its hindlegs for people to point and laugh at as it passes.

“You have your aunt’s look, Lady Arya,” Harwin offers. “I feel as if I am looking at her again.”

“You’re beautiful,” Ned blurts out, and Arya sees Gendry’s head jerk towards the Dornishman out of the corner of her eye. She’s never seen her friend look so _angry_, and it cuts her deep, knowing that he’s furious at Ned for paying her a compliment he doesn’t think she deserves. 

“No,” is all Arya says in response, turning on her heel and hurrying back up the stairs as quick as she can.

She tears the gown in her haste to get out of it, leaving the beautiful silk crumpled on the floor like a rag.

* * *

Gendry is angry all the time now. 

Arya doesn’t understand why, doesn’t know what happened, but his temper is shorter than it’s ever been. He snaps at everyone, spends more time in the forge, and if anyone upsets him, he storms out of the room. It gets worse when the Brotherhood stops in between raids, especially when Thoros and Beric start discussing the viability of traveling to Riverrun with regularity, and Arya doesn’t miss the way Gendry always storms out of the room when the topic is raised.

One afternoon Arya decides to be kind and brings lunch out to him in the forge. He’s been working like a mad man lately, banging away on anything and everything, and he doesn’t stop doing it when she enters. She sets the food on the far end of the bench, waiting, and eventually he sets down his hammer, splashing water on his hands before reaching for the sandwich.

“You’re really good now,” she says as she looks at the sword he was crafting. He didn’t get much of a chance to make new blades, but Lem brought him some scrap last visit to practice on. 

Gendry grunts some approximation of a thank you, continuing to chew.

“When we get to Riverrun, you’ll have to show it to Robb. I bet he’ll want you to make him a new sword when he sees how fine – “

“’M not going.”

Arya blinks. “What do you mean, you’re not going. Of course you’re going.”

Gendry shakes his head, swallowing the last of the sandwich. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are! That’s the plan! It’s always _been_ the plan! The only reason we stayed here was so we can go to Riverrun and then go back to Winterfell. Why are you being stupid?”

“Because I’m not going _back_ to Winterfell, m’lady! It’s not _my_ home, it’s yours! And I may be a stupid bastard but even I know you won’t be staying there long.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means everyone sees the way Ned Dayne follows you around like a pup, and I heard him telling Harwin he means to wed you. So why the hells would I go to Winterfell to freeze my balls off when you won’t even be there?” Before Arya can say anything, he rushes on, “And even if you _were_ there, you think your lady mother is going to let you come sit in the forge with me? No, she’ll tell you what you never seem to get: you’re a lady whether you like it or not, and that means men like me aren’t even supposed to look at you, let alone – “ He cuts off, clenching his fists tight before grabbing his hammer again. “I’m not the stupid one here.”

Chest tightening with a mixture of panic and sadness, Arya shakes her head. “You’re lying. That’s not why you’re not coming. You’re not coming because of Jeyne.”

Gendry’s face folds in confusion. “Jeyne? What does Jeyne got to do with anything?”

“I saw you!” When Gendry still looks confused, she adds, “In the kitchens! I saw you fucking her! Bet you’ve been fucking her for years, ever since we got here even! You don’t want to come to Winterfell because you want to keep fucking her!”

Arya doesn’t know if the flush on his face is from the heat, anger, or embarrassment, but he is as red as the coals in the fire. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know what fucking looks like, and that’s what you were doing!”

Gendry comes around the bench, stepping closer to Arya and crowding her against the wall. “And how do you know that, hmm, m’lady? Is that what you and little Lord Ned are doing in the woods? You lift your skirts and show him your snares – “

Her hand crashes hard against his cheek, and Arya isn’t certain who is more surprised by the blow. They’ve wrestled a hundred times or smacked the other in irritation, but it’s never been in true anger and not since they were children. But as Arya’s hand stings from the force and a handprint appears on Gendry’s face, she feels like something has changed between them and might never be okay again.

“I hate you,” she chokes out, tears finally overtaking her, and she shoves him backwards, the movement doing little more than rocking Gendry back on his heels, and she storms out of the forge and straight up to her room, slamming the door and sobbing into her pillow like she hasn’t in years.

* * *

Willow brings her a tray for supper, but Arya doesn’t get out of bed, ignoring the food even though her stomach growls for it. She knows it’s stupid to refuse to eat, especially when there are times when food is scarce, but Arya doesn’t want to eat. She doesn’t want to do anything but lie in bed and wonder why the world has to be so damned complicated. What does it matter if she is a lady and Gendry is a bastard? Why can’t they be friends at Winterfell? And why does it eat at her that Gendry might be choosing Jeyne over her or that he thinks she’d choose Ned Dayne over him?

On day two of staying in bed, Arya finds herself sleeping for long stretches of time, waking up to more thoughts and confusion, and then falling back asleep. Willow checks on her a few times, once even jostling and asking if she’s dead, but Arya lies, says she doesn’t feel well and to leave her alone.

It isn’t exactly a lie. She _does_ feel sick.

On the third day, the Brotherhood returns. Arya finally heaves herself out of bed, scrubbing up in the basin, tightly braiding her hair in a crown atop her head. She hasn’t worn her hair this way since leaving Winterfell and even then, it was rare; she’d always been too impatient to sit still long enough to allow someone to fix her hair. 

The dress she puts on isn’t near as fancy as the grey one from weeks earlier. This one is still well-made, stolen from somewhere like most of the things the Brotherhood brought back to the Crossroads, but it is simpler, more like the dresses her mother used to wear to go about her day in Winterfell. It is a deep red, closer to maroon than Lannister red, with sleeves that bell at her wrists and laces in the front that she ties into a neat bow. In the cracked looking glass Willow has, Arya thinks she looks like the sort of Northern lady her mother and perhaps even her father hoped she grow into one day.

It makes her want to cry, how much she hates it, but maybe Gendry was right. No matter what adventures they had, no matter how many pairs of breeches she wore, no matter how vehemently she argued against it, she is still Arya Stark of Winterfell, a lady of noble birth with all the limitations it included. If Riverrun is in her future, if resuming life as Lady Arya of Winterfell is on the horizon, she may as well stop pretending and start being who she will have to be the rest of her life.

_”Sometimes you will fight a battle with all of your skill, and still you will lose,”_ Syrio once told her. _”Learn and start again.”_

Arya doesn’t know what she’s supposed to learn from this, but she certainly feels as if she has lost the greatest fight of her life.

When she starts to descend the stairs, the entire inn goes silent. Arya freezes on the stairs, uncertain what is happening, and it is only when she looks at Harwin for him to immediately look away, that she understands something terrible has happened.

“What?” she demands, rushing down the rest of the stairs. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Lady Arya,” Beric begins but she shouts for someone to tell her what’s happened, not wanting stupid titles and courtesies, not when she can feel the world starting to tilt in the same way it had the day Ilyn Payne took her father’s head.

It is Thoros who tells her: the Freys, broken guest right, betrayal by the Boltons, her mother, her brother, Grey Wind, his guard. Arya stops hearing after a time, a high-pitched noise in her ears and drowning out the Red Priest’s words. She pushes her way out the door of the inn, dimly aware some of the men are following her, but she doesn’t look back for them, doesn’t acknowledge. 

Her scream is sharp enough to be heard in Essos, the fury and sorrow exploding from her body with the force of Robert’s Warhammer when it caved in Rhaegar Targaryen’s chest. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Gendry burst out of the forge, his hammer in one hand in case of a fight, but she ignores him, screaming again, wrenching her skirts hard enough to tear them. Someone says her name, but she isn’t certain who. It is only when Ned ventures forward, resting a hand on her shoulder Arya snaps.

No sooner has his hand made contact with her that Arya pivots, her right fist shooting out and connecting solidly with his jaw as her left hand pulls his sword from his belt, the unfamiliar blade glinting in the afternoon sun. She drops into a fighting stance on instinct, glaring with true hatred in her eyes at Ned Dayne, bleeding from his mouth, shock in his eyes as he stumbles to his feet.

“Don’t touch me.”

Ned holds up his hands as Beric pulls him back, calmly assuring Arya none of them will touch her.

“Lady Arya,” Harwin ventures, true tears in his eyes, “I loved your family. You know that to be true. You have no enemies here.”

She doesn’t intend to run. If she is honest, Arya doesn’t _intend_ anything as grief overwhelms her. Father, Mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon…all gone. Sansa is lost to her, unlikely to ever be free of the Lannisters again. Jon is thousands and thousands of leagues away at the Wall. She is alone, really and truly, and it is too much. 

The branches of the trees pull at her dress, scratch her face, but Arya feels none of it. She hears people behind her, but she spends more time in these woods than anyone else. Arya runs until she cannot hear anyone anymore and then runs more still, not stopping until even she does not recognize her surroundings. Only then does she drop to the forest floor, lean back against a fallen tree, and allow herself to cry herself hoarse.

* * *

Arya wakes in the woods to something wet on her face. She thinks it must be rain, opening her eyes to find shelter, and instead gasps as she sees the truly massive direwolf standing in front of her, several smaller wolves behind her.

“Nymeria?” she rasps, throat aching, and the wolf - _her_ wolf – head butts her, nearly knocking her over from the force of it. 

The wolf is tense as Arya buries her fingers in her fur, burying her face against her and inhaling the scent of the forest clinging to her. She has grown so much since that terrible day by the Trident, almost large enough to ride, and there is blood on her snout from a hunt. Arya tries to remember her that day in her chamber, attempting to teach her to fetch her gloves, and if she ever remembers how to laugh again, she will because how could she ever think something as majestic as this direwolf could be taught to fetch?

“I missed you so much,” she whispers, and Nymeria head butts her again as if to return the sentiment.

It is only then Arya realizes it is pitch black, and she is freezing, frost starting to form on the ground. She looks around, trying to find a landmark to orient herself, and for the first time Arya feels a stab of panic when she realizes she is lost and alone with no supplies. Just as true fear starts to lick at her, Nymeria catches the bell of her sleeve in her teeth and tugs.

Arya follows. At least so long as she follows Nymeria and her pack, she isn’t alone.

Nymeria keeps Arya’s sleeve between her teeth as they walk, and it reminds Arya of the way the kennel master’s dog used to carry its pups. She lets her direwolf lead her, not even bothering to assess her surroundings, unconcerned with the wolves at her back because if they were Nymeria’s pack, they were hers as well. There’d been a time when living in the forest with Nymeria would have been her dream, the sort of fantasy about being a wildling she and Bran would play at in the wolfswood. 

She wonders what happened to Bran’s wolf and Shaggydog after Theon killed them. They never would have let anyone hurt her brothers if they could’ve stopped it. She hopes if they’re still alive, they are together, a pack of two. Mayhaps Nymeria could find them in the North, make sure they’re all right. Mayhaps all of them could go to the Wall, find Ghost and – 

Arya stops as she realizes where Nymeria has led her. The Crossroads Inn sits dark and silent, the horses making noises of complaint as they sense the wolves approaching. She looks down at her wolf, who looks back up at her with dark eyes, and her heart cracks a little more.

“Are you staying?” she asks as if Nymeria will respond. 

Instead the direwolf releases her sleeve, bumps the flat of her head against Arya’s hip, and turns back towards the smaller wolves, leading them into the darkness of the forest again. 

It is only as Nymeria disappears into the trees Arya realizes just how cold she is. Her feet and hands are numb, her face aches, and it is as if her bones have become icicles beneath her skin, each movement now making her hurt. She looks at the inn before moving across the frosty grass to reach the forge.

The heat hits her in the face the moment she opens the door, the fires still burning in the ovens. Arya shuffles over to the nearest one, holding her hands as near to it as she can without getting burned, and she sighs in relieved pleasure as the heat hits her. So focused on getting warm, Arya is caught off-guard as strong hands grasp her shoulders, spinning her around as if she is a doll.

“Where the hells have you been?” Gendry gasps, clutching her too tight, seemingly uncertain if he wants to hug her or shake her. 

“Cold,” she manages through chattering teeth, shaking off his hands.

Gendry crosses to the small cot and trunk he keeps in the forge, pulling one of his few pairs of pants and a tunic from it. “You’re not going to get warm in that dress. What happened to you?”

Arya accepts the clothes, just realizing her dress is damp. “I got lost and I – I fell asleep. Nymeria found me.”

His brow furrows. “Your direwolf?”

“She had other wolves with her, a pack. She has a pack.” Arya looks at him, the grief exploding in her chest again. “I don’t have a family anymore.”

Gendry cups the side of her face with one hand, making certain she is looking at him. He is as serious as she’s ever seen him as he declares, “_I’m_ your family. You’re mine. We look out for each other, yeah?” When Arya nods, he continues, “Then don’t go running into the forest again. Get changed, and I’ll tell the Brothers you’re back.”

Arya grabs the front of his shirt, stilling his retreat. She wants to say so much but all that comes out is, “Don’t leave.”

He pauses for a moment before nodding, offering to stoke the fires while she changes. When she is in his too-big clothing, her ruined dress discarded, she climbs into his cot and slips beneath the blankets. Gendry looks at her for a long beat before crossing to join her, and Arya closes her eyes as he pulls her to his chest, the warmth of him better than any fire.

“Why weren’t you inside?” she asks sleepily against his chest, enjoying the play of his fingers through her hair.

“I was looking for you, even after the others stopped.”

Arya is almost asleep but still manages to mumble, “I’d keep looking for you too.”

* * *

She starts sleeping in Gendry’s room again. Not every night but more than she sleeps with Willow, even leaving some of her things there. If Beric or Thoros is upset about it, they don’t say anything to her. _No one_ says much of anything to her anymore, everyone but Gendry treating her as if she is crystal and will shatter with a rough word. Normally she’d be furious about it, but grief is exhausting, and she has little patience anymore.

Ned is the worst about it. She’d barely opened her mouth before he accepted her apology for hitting him and losing his sword. He hasn’t tried to kiss her since that day though, and she doesn’t let him tag along when she checks her snares. She says it’s because she doesn’t want him to scare off Nymeria in case she comes back, but the truth is both simpler and more complicated.

“Does Jeyne love him?” Arya asks Willow one evening when they lay side-by-side in bed. They’ve both grown in the nearly two years since this arrangement began, and it isn’t nearly as comfortable as it once was.

Willow frowns, considering. “I don’t think so. I asked her once why she doesn’t just have Thoros marry them.”

Arya feels nauseous. “What did she say?”

“That she isn’t an idiot and only idiots marry men who don’t love them.”

“If she knows Gendry doesn’t love her, why does she keep fucking him?”

Willow smirks. “Who else is she going to fuck around here? Most of the men are old or fuck anything, and Lord Dayne only has eyes for you. Besides, Gendry is right handsome. Even you have to admit that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, that even I have to admit it?”

Willow flushes. “Just that you don’t seem to care much about men, is all. Everyone knows Ned wants to marry you. He’s always giving you gifts and mooning after you. I heard him trying to convince Beric that now that – now that Riverrun isn’t an option, you’d be safest in Dorne with his family as his wife.”

“What did Beric say?”

“That not even the gods themselves could save Ned if they tried to force you into something you don’t want to do.” She beats at her flat pillow, trying to make it even the slightest bit soft. “Why _don’t_ you do it? It would be better than here.”

“It wouldn’t.”

“It _would_. You’d be a lady, having servants cook your meals and clean your castle and you wouldn’t have to eat potato soup for weeks at a time when you can’t catch a rabbit. Bet lords and ladies are never cold or have to share beds when they’re grown or worry soldiers are going to come through and rape them.” Willow snorts. “I’ll never understand why you’d rather be poor like us than be a lady again.”

Arya considers Willow’s words for several beats before saying, “It’s not that I want to be poor. It’s that being a lady is so full of stupid rules. If I was a lady again, I’d have to go back to wearing gowns every day and sewing things and being told who I can befriend and who I can’t. Being a lady means everything has to _look_ proper, but no one actually cares if the people they say are proper are good people. Joffrey was a monster but because his parents were highborn, everyone thought he was proper. My brother Jon, he’s the kindest man I ever knew, but because he was a bastard, no lord would ever let their daughters marry him because it wasn’t proper. That’s not right.”

“That _is_ stupid,” Willow allows. “Is he handsome, your brother? I’ll marry him, bastard or not.”

She can’t help but laugh. “He’s a man of the Night’s Watch.”

Willow sighs dramatically. “Then I hope Jeyne lets me borrow Gendry sometimes because at the rate things are going, I’m going to die a bloody crone.”

Arya knows Willow is only japing, but it still makes something possessive roar in her chest.

* * *

Polliver comes into the inn with two other Lannister men Arya doesn’t recognize, Needle on his hip, and it awakens a rage in Arya she hasn’t felt in years. They’d been busy as the weather warms, travelers starting to venture out onto the Kingsroad again, and Jeyne needed help serving them all. Arya stands there, a tray of ale in her hands, and she doesn’t know what to do.

“Oi!” one of Polliver’s companions shouts at Arya. “Girly! We’re thirsty!”

Arya manages to put one foot in front of the other, setting the tray down on the table. She passes out the ale without making eye contact, certain if she looks up, she’ll fly at the men and get everyone killed. There are too many people in the inn, too many of the orphans around, and Arya knows what happened to Jeyne and Willow’s aunt when she let Tyrion Lannister be taken from the inn.

The other companion, the one who hadn’t shouted at her, slaps a hand against Arya’s ass, palming it with a laugh. She grits her teeth, swallowing down the growl in her chest, as the man makes a crude comment about her body before asking, “Want to make a little extra coin, sweetling?”

An idea quickly blooming in her head, Arya lifts her chin and manages what she hopes is a flirtatious smile. “How much coin?”

The man grins, revealing a mouth of yellowed teeth. “What do you say, a stag for each of us?”

Arya doesn’t know the going rate for prostitutes, but she knows it’s insultingly low. But still she cocks her hip the way she’s seen Willow do when flirting with the patrons in hopes of a tip, and plays with the end of her braid. “I can’t do it inside here, yeah? Mistress will put me out if she catches us. But if we went into the woods…”

All of them are grinning, nodding in agreement, and Arya checks to make certain Jeyne and Willow are engaged before motioning for the men to follow her. Her heart beats wildly in her chest as she leads them out of the inn, wishing she’d thought to tuck a knife into her waistband before coming out here. She’ll have to be swift as a deer to survive this, and Arya certainly plans on surviving this.

They are just far enough down the path that the inn isn’t visible when Arya stops, taking in the trio. There is a purse on the hip of the one who grabbed her, and she points to it.

“Prove you got the stags.”

He smirks, shaking out the three coins and holding them in his palm. When Arya reaches for them, he shuts his hand tight. “Not until we’ve had our fill.”

“What, you think I’m going to rob you? You’re all twice my size.” Arya shrugs. “Fine then.” She steps closer to Polliver, putting her hands on his chest and pushing him backwards against the trunk of a tree. “You mind going first?”

He shakes his head, and Arya’s smile is genuine now. Her plan is going to work. 

She keeps her eyes locked on his as she sinks to her knees, adrenaline racing through her blood. As her hands reach for his waistband, she makes certain Polliver is looking right at her as she says, “You don’t remember me at all, do you?”

“What?” he manages to get out before Arya springs into motion, the hands at his waist jerking Needle out of his belt, thrusting the thin blade deep into his belly as she pivots into a defensive stance. Polliver gasps, a bubble of blood coming from his mouth, and it takes his friends a moment to realize what is happening.

“Fucking bitch!” the one who shouted at her curses, charging at her, but Arya is already moving out of the way, slicing him across the back as he explodes past her. She may not have had Needle for the past few years, but she’s practiced nearly every day with sticks, with broken blades in the forge, with anything that imitated the feel of her sword. The man shouts in pain, and the one with the money thinks to pull his own sword. The one she’d bloodied seems to remember then he has a sword as well, wrenching it out of its scabbard, and Arya’s eyes flits between them, waiting for their assault.

“You fucking whore!” the groper roars as he advances, and Arya blocks his attack, spinning beneath his arm, managing to slice open his thigh. His swordless arm swings behind him, and Arya gasps in pain as he manages to grab hold of her braid, jerking her straight to the ground with it. She tries to get Needle’s point up but he stomps on her wrist, keeping the sword pinned against the earth, and Arya is struggling to knock his weight off of her when he raises his sword.

His head explodes. 

For a moment Arya doesn’t understand what has happened, bits of blood, bone, and brain raining down on her, but as her attacker falls, she sees Gendry, his heaviest hammer in hand, a look of incandescent rage on his handsome face. His skin has the same mist of blood as hers, and as Arya hurries to her feet, she watches as Gendry spins, swinging the hammer in one graceful arc that sends the screamer flat onto his back, his face obliterated. It is only then, as they stand there, blood soaked and fighting to catch their breaths, that Arya realizes Polliver is still moving under the tree.

She walks past Gendry, standing next to the dying man, Needle fixed on him. “Do you know who I am?”

“Please – please,” he chokes, blood pouring from his mouth.

“My name is Arya Stark of Winterfell. You stole this sword from me. Do you remember that?” She scoffs when he just looks at her, panic in his eyes. “No, of course not. You’ve done far worse than just stealing a sword from some child, haven’t you? None of us mattered to you.”

And then she pushes Needle’s point into the base of Polliver’s throat, finishing what she started.

It is only after Polliver is truly dead that Arya looks away from him, looks at Gendry who is staring at her with an inscrutable look on his face. 

“Beric is going to kill us for this. They’re Lannister men and – “

“No one is going to find them,” Arya states with certainty. “There are wolves in these woods, you know.”

And somehow she knows it’s true, that Nymeria and her pack will feast on these evil men’s bodies until there is no proof they ever stayed at The Crossroads Inn.

They can’t go back to the inn covered in blood, so Arya leads him to a nearby stream. Gendry strips off his shirt, dipping it into the water before starting to scrub the blood from his skin. Arya toes off her boots and simply slips beneath the surface. It isn’t deep, only reaching her waist at its deepest point, but she lingers beneath the water, letting the peace and quiet rush over her for as long as she can before breaching the surface.

Gendry is still scrubbing at his hands when he says, “They could’ve killed you. They _would_ have killed you. You can’t do everything by yourself.”

“I didn’t. You were there.”

“Because I saw you! Because I thought they figured out who you are and were taking you away!” Gendry throws his sopping shirt into the water. “Gods, Arya…”

Something like guilt forming in her gut, Arya wakes back to the bank, taking a seat next to him. She sighs, tugging the band from the end of her braid and shaking out her wet hair until it unravels around her face. “I’m sorry. I just…They deserved it. _He_ deserved it. I couldn’t let him go.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” He scrubs at his face. “Joffrey, Cersei, Tywin Lannister, Ilyn Payne, the Mountain, the Hound, Amory Lorch, Meryn Trant, the Tickler, Raff the Sweetling, Polliver, Chiswyck, Weese, Dunsen, Walder Frey, Roose Bolton, Theon Greyjoy.” 

Arya blinks in surprise. “That’s my list.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve said it every night since we were kids. You think I wouldn’t know it? You think I don’t understand?” He shakes his head. “I never had a family. It was always just my mum and me and then it was just me until you came along. You want to kill all those people that hurt you, hurt your family? Fine. I’ll help you do it. But I don’t want you to die doing it.”

“I’m not trying to die, but I’m ready to if it means – “

“Well, I’m not bloody ready for you to!” Gendry shouts, turning on her with real anger in his voice. “What good does that do anyone, you being dead? You think that’ll bring any of them back? You think your mum and dad want you to get raped and killed in some forest trying to avenge them? Your sister, she’s still alive, yeah? And you’ve got your brother on the Wall! You think they want to mourn you like they’ve had to mourn your brothers, your parents?”

“Stop it,” she hisses, wiping at the hot tears suddenly tracking down her cheeks. 

Gendry wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his body. She twists her body until she is straddling his lap, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder, clinging to him for dear life, Gendry’s embrace skirting the edge between firm and painful. 

Arya doesn’t know how long they remain like that but when they finally make their way back to the inn, the bodies of Polliver and his men are gone, drag marks leading into the brush.

* * *

“You one of Robert’s get?”

Arya looks up from the book she is reading in the corner of the forge to look at the man who is speaking to Gendry. He is just passing through, needing a new shoe for his horse, and while Arya doesn’t remember all of her house histories and sigils, she thinks the mark on his tunic belongs to a house in the Stormlands.

“Pardon, m’lord?”

The man gestures to Gendry, waving his hand from head to toe. “I might be an old man, but I remember what Robert looked like when he was your age, and you’re his spitting image. Now I know you ain’t Renly’s and Stannis would never have a bastard, but Robert, gods keep him, they say he had bastards in every kingdom. You one of them?”

“I don’t know who my father was, m’lord.”

“You a Rivers? A Storm?”

“Waters.”

The old man nods knowingly. “Aye, your mum, she work at a tavern or a pillowhouse?”

Arya can read the tension in Gendry’s shoulders as he grits out, “Tavern.”

“Then I’d wager my entire house there’s Baratheon blood in you. Put some armor on you, you’d look like Robert riding off to the Trident to fight Rhaegar.” The old man shakes out some coins, passing the money into Gendry’s hand. “Heard ol’ Cersei had the lot of you killed to make sure no one could challenge for the throne.”

“Don’t know anything about that, m’lord.”

The old man seems to finally notice Arya, and he squints at her. “Do I know you?”

“No,” she states flatly, turning her attention back to her book until the old man is gone. However the moment the door of the forge closes, she leaps from her spot and crosses to Gendry. He makes a noise of complaint when Arya grabs his face, pulling him down so he is eye level with her as she studies him.

“What are you doing?”

“The king was fat and ugly,” she states matter-of-factly, “but I heard my mother tell Sansa he was handsome and fit when he was young. You’ve got hair like his and eyes like Lord Renly. It would explain why the Gold Cloaks wanted you and why my father came asking you questions.”

Gendry takes hold of her wrists and pulls her away, straightening until he is towering over her again. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“Why? If he _was_ my father, it means the queen wants to kill me. He’s dead, so it’s not as if he’s going to claim me, legitimize me. And even if _was_ alive, fuck him for leaving my mum with a baby she couldn’t afford and never doing a damned thing for us.” He scoffs. “I didn’t give a shit about Robert Baratheon when he was alive, and I don’t give a shit now.”

Arya is quiet for a moment before saying, “But it makes it all even stupider if he was.”

Gendry furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“My father grew up with him like brothers. It was why we came to King’s Landing, because my father was his best friend and he needed someone he could trust. If he’d been your father, if you’d been trueborn, we always could have been friends. We could have…”

“Could have what?” he challenges, taking a tentative step towards her.

She forces a teasing smile. “You could have been the one who got betrothed to my sister.”

“What makes you think I’d want your sister?”

Arya shrugs. “Everyone did. She was the nice one, the pretty one – “

“You’re pretty,” he cuts in, one large hand rising to trace the line of her jaw with his thumb. “You keep…getting prettier. It’s why fucking Ned can’t stop looking at you.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

Gendry nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before pulling his hand back, his fingers flexing as if he wants to do something more. 

“I’m not nice.”

He cracks a smile. “Sometimes you’re not too bad.”

“I think you would have made a good lord.”

“Guess we’ll never know.”

_Would you kiss me if you were a lord?_ Arya almost asks him, but so afraid of the answer, she swallows it down and returns to her book.


	2. Chapter 2

The quintet is a motley crew: two blue-haired men, a septa with wrinkled robes, a man who carries himself like a soldier, and a man who gives off the same air as Maester Luwin had. Willow says they’re from Essos and declares them the most interesting guests they’ve had in ages.

“The son is handsome, and I’m going to bed him.”

Arya laughs. “Jeyne will strip the skin off your back if she catches you.”

“I’m a woman grown!” she says with a stamp of her foot that makes Arya laugh again. “Neither of us are children anymore, but everyone here treats us like we’re one of the orphans.”

“And fucking this man from Essos will fix that?”

“Yes!” Willow pauses. “Possibly.”

“Then I wish you the very best of luck.”

Arya hasn’t actually met the people from Essos when she wishes Willow luck. In fact, she doesn’t meet them until the next afternoon when she returns from the woods with several rabbits she’s felled, the bow Anguy gifted her years earlier slung over her back. When she comes through the door and announces her haul, Jeyne actually grins as she accepts the bag, passing it to one of the orphans to clean. 

“I’m making that meat pie you like for this,” Jeyne declares, handing over bowls of stew to a pair of old men. 

Arya smiles, slipping off her quiver of arrows and bow. “With peppers?”

“I’ll make it hot enough to bring tears to your eyes if you keep bringing me so much meat.” 

“You must be a good shot.”

Arya turns and sees a young man about Gendry’s age with bright blue hair seated at a table in the corner with four other people. She takes them in, assessing if they are a threat, before agreeing, “I am.”

“I didn’t know women hunted in Westeros.”

“Only if they want to eat. What do they do in Essos, sit around and starve?”

“Arya,” Jeyne calls, a hint of censure in her voice. 

Unlike most of their patrons, the people from Essos are paying for multiple rooms and several meals a day. Jeyne had stressed to everyone it was important to keep them happy if they wanted to eat well, and Arya knows it must be serious money if even Jeyne is willing to play at being nice.

“Arya,” the blue-haired man repeats as if he is tasting her name. “That’s a lovely name. What house are you from, Arya?”

“No house,” she lies. “I’m a bastard, just another Snow.”

“So you’re from the North?”

“I’m from nowhere.”

“Everyone’s from somewhere.”

“Then where are _you_ from?”

“Tyrosh.” He pushes to his feet, the older, blue-haired man glaring at him as he does so. “I’m Griff.”

Arya looks at his proffered hand for a moment before accepting it, managing not to flinch when he brushes his lips against the top of her hand. 

“He bothering you?”

Arya jerks her head towards the sound of Gendry’s voice. He stands near the entrance of the inn, fists clenched at his sides, blue eyes fixed on Griff. Griff takes his time pulling away, holding Gendry’s gaze with a slight smirk on his face, and Arya knows this could turn bad very quickly, which is why she steps between them, crossing to Gendry.

“No, just introducing himself. Hey, could you make me some new arrowheads?”

It isn’t until she gives a backwards glance that she notices the older blue-haired man is looking at Gendry as if he’s seen a ghost.

* * *

“Is the blacksmith your brother?”

Arya looks up from the book she is reading and realizes two things. The first is that it is far later than she thought it was, and the second is that she and Griff are the only people left in the dining hall. She isn’t scared; one shout will bring everyone running and, besides, there is a knife on the table beside Arya’s empty plate. But she _is_ uncertain why this stranger is so interested in her.

“No.”

“Your lover?”

She snaps her book shut. “No!”

“In my experience, the only times a man acts that protective is when he’s defending his sister or his lover. Are you lying?”

“I have no reason to lie to you because I don’t care what you think about me. But he’s my friend, my best friend.”

Griff nods. “Are you betrothed?”

“Of course not. I’m a bastard.”

“No, you’re not.”

The absolute certainty in his voice makes the hair on the back of Arya’s neck rise. Forcing her face to remain neutral, she folds her hands atop her book and drawls, “So you’re an expert on Westerosi bastards then?”

He reaches over, tapping the spine of the book. “You can read; no one else here can. You don’t talk like them. Your table manners aren’t great, but they’re still better than anyone else’s here. And I heard you this afternoon, when those men came in from the Reach; you knew their house based on their sigil, but why would a Northern bastard know about houses in the Reach?” Before she can respond, he adds, “And I saw you practicing with that little sword of yours, and that’s real steel, not some scrap the blacksmith threw together for you. That came from a true armorer.”

“Gendry _is_ a real armorer. And maybe I’m a thief.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but that still wouldn’t explain the rest.”

“Then what exactly are you accusing me of?”

“Nothing. Whoever you are, whoever you _really_ are, you obviously don’t want people to know. I can understand that.” He picks up his mug of ale and takes a heavy swallow. “Your name really Arya?”

She nods.

“My name isn’t really Griff.” He smiles, crooked and pained. “I can’t tell you what it is though.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“No, you didn’t.” He finishes his drink. “You really from the North?”

She nods again. “You really from Tyrosh?”

“I’m not from anywhere.”

“I thought everyone was from somewhere.”

“Not me.” The smile becomes even more pained. “I was born in Westeros though.”

“Then you’re lucky you got away before it all went to shit.”

“Who says I did? Things have been shit for a long time.”

“That they have.” Arya slumps back into her chair, no longer on the defense. “Do you know Willow, the one who helps Jeyne? She wants to fuck you.”

A startled laugh bursts from Griff’s chest. “She told you that?”

“Life isn’t particularly exciting here, and most of the men that come through are assholes. She thinks you’re handsome.”

“What do you think?”

“I think your hair is stupid.”

He laughs again, freer now, and Arya finds herself pointing to his mug and asking if he’d like more. She goes behind the bar, refilling his mug and filling one for herself. As she sits back down, he asks, “Are you always this honest?”

“Don’t see much point in lying just to be polite.”

Raising his mug and clinking it against hers, he assures her, “No one will ever accuse you of being polite. Now,” he continues, after taking a drink, “tell me what snow is like.”

After she is done explaining what it’s like to have a snowball fight, Griff describes the Titan of Braavos straddling the sea. She is uncertain how long they have been trading stories when a soft voice says, “Griff,” drawing both of their attentions.

The septa stands on the staircase in a nightgown and robe cinched at her waist. Her hair is loose and uncovered, a brassy shade of blonde with darker roots that reminds Arya of the whores in King’s Landing who colored their hair. She looks younger and less severe without her septa’s robes, and Arya realizes she is both younger and far more beautiful than she’d initially thought.

“It’s late,” the septa says, “and your father will be upset if he finds you down here.”

“We were just – “

“Just finishing up,” the septa interrupts, a firmness to her words that makes Arya ache at how much the woman reminds her of Catelyn Stark in that moment, correcting Robb for some bit of trouble. 

Arya is surprised when Griff rises, a chagrined look on his face, and she wonders if the septa is truly his mother or simply the closest thing to one he has. “I’m sorry for keeping you awake so late. Thank you for the stories and the drinks.”

Arya shrugs. “Don’t tell Jeyne. She’ll be pissed I didn’t charge you.”

“Griff.”

He gives Arya a quick wink before hurrying towards the stairs. The septa whispers to him in some foreign tongue, sounding urgent and upset, and Griff whispers back in a placating tone. Arya hears doors upstairs open and close, and she shakes her head as she clears the table.

People are strange.

* * *

Rory, one of the orphans who had been at the inn the longest, comes running in one early morning, gasping for air from how fast he was running, shouting that Lannister banners were approaching. Everyone eating froze for a moment, waiting for Rory to catch his breath, and when he chokes out, “They say it’s Lord Tywin,” Arya doesn’t know if she wants to vomit or attempt to cross another name off of her list.

The only guests in the inn are Griff and his companions, but as Jeyne starts hustling the orphans upstairs or into the barn with strict order to stay out of sight, they forget about them. Arya has barely gotten to her feet before Gendry has hold of her upper arm and is dragging her towards the door.

“Stop it!” she protests, trying to jerk away.

“You’ve got to hide! Harwin said you look just like your aunt. If he takes one look at you, he’ll know who you are. Go into the woods and I’ll find you when he’s gone.”

“The only way you could find me in the woods is if I was showing you the way. I’m not running!”

“Gods damn it, Arya! Now is not the time – “

“You should hide too! If what that man said about you is true – “

“I can defend myself!”

“So can I!”

She can hear the beating of hooves fast approaching, and Arya realizes in that moment that Gendry isn’t wrong. The last time he’d been at the inn, Harwin said it was downright uncanny how much she looked like her Aunt Lyanna, and even if he hadn’t, she knows from looking in the mirror that she has the Stark look. 

“Here,” the septa says, suddenly at her side, pulling off her robes and head covering, dropping the fabric over Arya’s head and quickly tucking her dark hair beneath it. She is wearing a simple gown beneath the robes, her hair pinned at the nape of her neck. “No one notices a septa. Sit with us and keep your head down.”

Arya and Gendry look at her, uncertain, but as the hoof beats get louder, Arya makes up her mind, putting the robes on. Looking up at Gendry, she jerks her head towards the forge, and he looks as if he wants to argue but something in her face must show how serious she is because he exhales sharply in frustration before pressing a hard kiss to her forehead and rushing towards the forge.

The soldier has grabbed another chair and pulled it to their table so that when Arya sits, her back is to the door. Griff sits opposite her, and he slowly slides a knife he’d been using to cut his meat to her. Arya wraps her hand around the hilt, pulling it into her lap and tucking it into her sleeves so it cannot be seen. She briefly closes her eyes, reciting the mantras Syrio taught her so long ago as she tries to calm her breathing.

Tywin Lannister leads a group of over a dozen men into the inn, speaking to Jeyne in short, clipped sentences. Arya clutches the hilt of the knife even tighter as she imagines the man speaking the same way as he devised the Red Wedding, as he negotiated for the total annihilation of her family. The septa reaches under the table and finds her wrist, squeezing it in warning or support, Arya isn’t certain. 

“We’ll root them out,” Tywin is saying when Arya tunes back into what is happening, “like the vermin they are. I wouldn’t have to be here if you’d do what I pay you good coin to do.” He makes a noise that if any other man made it, Arya would consider it a snort. “Brotherhood Without Banners.”

“We’ve been doing our best, my lord,” a man with a quiver in his voice insists. “They aren’t – They’re smarter than most bandits.”

“A handful of Stark men and smallfolk? If they can best what’s supposed to be the best army in Westeros, perhaps I should be paying _them_ instead of you.”

“You don’t understand, my lord,” another man pipes up. “The Lightning Lord, he’s not – He can’t be killed. I’ve seen him killed twice and still he – “

“Nonsense.” 

There is silence for several minutes until the familiar sound of Jeyne and Willow delivering plates of food reaches Arya’s ears. The men all tuck into their food, Arya tempted to turn and steal a glance, until Lord Tywin asks, “And is the girl with them?”

“No lady rides with the Brotherhood, my lord. We may not know all of their names, but there isn’t a lady with them.”

“Well they’d hardly take her on raids, would they? That doesn’t change what the Freys told us. They were trying to ransom the youngest girl back to Robb Stark. You can’t ransom someone you don’t have.”

“Maybe they were lying.”

“They may be bandits now but they served Eddard Stark once, and men who served Eddard Stark are not liars. He had honor and wouldn’t abide those who didn’t. If those men said they had his daughter, then they had her.” There is a pause. “What did her sister tell you?”

Arya’s heart cracks open at the mention of Sansa, trying desperately to conjure her face in her mind.

“The same thing she’s always said: she hasn’t seen her sister since the morning Lord Stark was arrested. She said she’d be near six-and-ten now, her hair was dark, and she was skilled at seating a horse. Lady Sansa doesn’t believe she’s alive.”

The septa’s hand tightens on her wrist again, and Arya realizes silent tears are tracking down her cheeks. She wipes them away quickly with one of the oversized sleeves of the robe, keeping her eyes focused on the table.

“I wouldn’t be inclined to either. A highborn girl – and a child at that – traveling alone? I’m certain nothing good happened to her. But there are still men loyal to House Stark, and if they came across his daughter, they’d shelter her.”

“There _is_ no House Stark left. You saw to that, my lord.”

“Until we have both Stark girls, that isn’t true. We need to find the younger one. Whether she lives or dies is of no consequence to me; Winterfell will pass to whatever child her sister bears my son. But so long as she is alive and free, there is the chance for her to secure an alliance on her own and cause more trouble.”

“No Great House would betray you, my lord.”

“And we will make certain that’s true.” Tywin exhales heavily. “We have enough problems with Stannis Baratheon and the Greyjoys. Let’s not add another Stark rebellion to it.”

It seems endless, their meal, and it takes everything in Arya not to rush the men and attempt to slit Tywin Lannister’s throat. When they finally rise, the Lion of Lannister thanking Jeyne and dropping what sounds like a purse of gold on the table, Arya finally lifts her head, turning to watch the old man leave.

Just as the septa swore, no one pays her a second glance.

It isn’t until the hoof beats have receded, a sickening silence falling over the inn, that Arya explodes, leaping to her feet, sending the chair flying backwards and slamming the blade of the knife deep into the wood of the table.

“Arya,” Willow begins, sadness in her voice, but Arya pays it no mind, suddenly feeling smothered by the septa’s robes and head covering. 

“I need a horse,” she declares. “If I leave now – “

“You’ll what, fight Tywin Lannister and a dozen of his men singlehandedly? Don’t be an idiot,” Jeyne hisses. 

“If I take my bow – “

“They have armor, and not even Anguy could get off that many perfect shots without getting killed. You want to be like Beric? Hope Thoros kisses you back to life until you’re some half-dead creature?” As Gendry bursts through the door, Jeyne points at Arya and orders, “Talk some sense into her before she gets us all killed.”

“He made Sansa marry the Imp! Or the Kingslayer, I don’t even know! He had the fucking Freys kill – “

“I know what they did,” Gendry interrupts, “but maybe we should have this conversation somewhere else.”

“I think we’ve figured it out, mate,” Griff speaks up, earning a furious look from his father. “We aren’t going to tell anyone.”

Gendry glowers at the smaller man before managing, “Thank you for helping us hide her, but this is none of your concern.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Griff,” both his father and the septa say, a warning in their voices.

“I need to – “

“You need to wait until Beric and Thoros come back,” Gendry says, taking hold of her shoulders, “and if you try to leave, I will throw you over my shoulder, bring you back, and lock you in the root cellar until they do.”

“I hate you,” she spits, hot tears coursing down her face.

“At least you’ll be alive to hate me.”

Arya goes to move towards the door and Gendry blocks it easily, his entire frame filling the doorway. Realizing he’s serious, she turns and rushes up the stairs, blowing past the orphans now making their way down, and slam the door to her room hard enough to shake the inn.

* * *

She is essentially kept under lock and key for two days until Gendry is convinced the Lannister men are too far away for her to catch. Most of the time is spent pacing the floors of her room, annoying Willow with her constant motion. A few times she sits, scratching out letters to Sansa only to realize she has no raven, there is certainly no way Sansa can receive letters the Lannisters wouldn’t read, and it may endanger everyone at the Crossroads if she does.

When she finally emerges from her room, the Essos group is still there. She blows past them with her bow, intent on target practice behind the stables. Arya has no idea how long she’s been practicing, her left arm starting to ache, when Griff comes up behind her and says, “I was right.”

It takes her a moment to understand what he means. “Yeah, guess you were.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve never met a lady like you.”

“I’m not a lady.” She releases an arrow, watching as it cuts through the air to sink into the center of the target. “Maybe I would’ve been one eventually but…Not now. Not ever.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Weren’t you paying attention yesterday? You can’t be a lady if you don’t have a house anymore, and Tywin Lannister made sure I don’t.” She crosses to the target, wrenching the arrows out of the target to start again. “He erased us like the fucking Reynes or – or Targaryens. I’m sure there’ll sing songs about it someday.”

“You’re not like the Reynes. You’re still here. Your sister is still here. I heard them mention you have a brother on the Wall. And the Targaryens, he didn’t – he didn’t kill all of them either. Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys, they escaped.”

“And where are they now? They’re not here. They’re not on Dragonstone. They’re hiding, same as me. Because that’s what you do when everyone who loved you is dead and you have nothing left.” She throws the arrows to the ground, flinging the bow away from her. “I can hit this target a thousand times, and it won’t make a fucking difference about anything! The Brotherhood can rob and steal and kill Lannister men, but it doesn’t change that Joffrey is on the throne. If you were smart, you’d get on the next ship to Essos and never look back.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Get on the next ship to Essos and never look back.” Picking up the bow, Griff carefully lifts one of the arrows, notching it with careful hands. “You could go to Braavos, Pentos, Lys. You could start over, be someone else, go where Tywin Lannister can’t reach you.” He pulls the bowstring taut, takes aim, and lets the arrow fly, the point sinking near the center. “Bet the blacksmith would even go with you.”

“Yeah, maybe I should. But even if you’re right, I’m not going to take advice from a man who won’t even tell me his actual name so…You can fuck off now.”

Griff holds up his hands in surrender, setting the bow on the ground and leaving her to her anger.

* * *

The septa’s name is Lemore. Arya learns this the day before they are scheduled to depart when Lemore finds her in the barn brushing out their horses for something to do. The older woman offers her name, and Arya barely acknowledges it, needing the soothing repetition of the brushing.

“I knew your father when I was young.”

Arya finally stops, turning to look at her in shock. “What?”

Lemore smiles. “Our paths crossed several times before – before I took my vows. He was still being fostered by Lord Arryn then and the Rebellion…It hadn’t happened yet.” She swallows hard. “He was a good man.”

“Yes.”

“Jeyne said – Well, she told me what happened to him, and I’m sorry for that. Ned was no traitor.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“I left Westeros after the Rebellion, and I always hoped – I hoped he lived a good life with your mother and you children. Did he?”

Arya nods, blinking back tears. “I think so.”

“He did me a great kindness once when I thought there wasn’t an ounce of kindness left in the world. I see him in you.”

“Thank you.”

Lemore opens her mouth, stops, bites her lip, and then seems to make up her mind about something. “What – What became of his bastard?”

“Jon? He’s – He took the black when we left Winterfell. He wanted to be a ranger.” Curiosity overwhelming her, she asks, “Did you know Jon’s mother?”

“I did. She was…She was a beautiful but sad woman. Her sadness was so great, she gave the baby – Jon? – to Ned for safekeeping.”

“Was she Ashara Dayne?” Seeing the surprise on Lemore’s face, Arya explains, “Her nephew Ned, he said something once about how they had a love affair. He never told Jon anything about his mum, and now he never can so…”

“Yes,” Lemore says, her voice cracking a bit with emotion. “But she died a long time ago. I’m sure her nephew told you that.”

“He said she leapt into the sea from a broken heart because of what happened with Princess Elia and Ser Arthur and – my father, I suppose. I didn’t understand it then.”

“You do now?”

“I’m not going to throw myself into the sea, if that’s what you’re asking.” Arya shrugs. “But I understand hurting that much.”

Lemore moves quickly, grasping Arya’s hands and catching her off-guard. “You could come with us, you know. We can protect you, and I know Griff would – He’d like your company.”

Arya extracts herself from the older woman’s grasp. “You’re strangers. Nice ones, yeah, but you’re still strangers. Besides, I can’t – My sister is still here, and I can’t leave her to them. My father went to war to save his sister.”

“And Lyanna died anyway.”

“And you think my father could’ve lived with himself if he hadn’t tried to save her?” 

Lemore sighs, smiling sadly. Arya remains stiff as the woman embraces her. “You Starks are a stubborn lot. I hope our paths cross again some day, Arya.”

It isn’t until Lemore is pulling out of the embrace Arya realizes her eyes are near purple, a shade she’s only ever seen when meeting Ned Dayne’s gaze.

* * *

Arya is sitting outside the inn in the dewy grass, finding the stars like Uncle Benjen taught her a lifetime ago, wishing for Nymeria to visit her when Griff takes a seat beside her. She doesn’t bother looking at him, instead tracing a constellation with her finger.

“Aegon.”

She stops, trying to meet his gaze in the near blackness of the night. “What?”

“My real name, it’s Aegon, Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and all the rest.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “It _is_ stupid, my hair. But it’s silver, so I have to keep it dyed while we’re here. And when my hair is blue, it makes my eyes seem blue instead of purple. It would be easier if I looked like my mother and then I could pass for a Dornishman, but I am a fucking dragon.”

“You died though. Thoros said he saw your body, yours and your sister’s.”

“All babies look alike, especially when fucking Lannister men crush their skulls.” His smile is bitter, and Arya recognizes that feeling so well. “You’re dead too, right? Highborn little girls and baby dragons…We don’t survive in the stories they tell, yet here we are.”

“Why would you come back?”

“Why would you stay?” 

“Are the five of you going to storm the Red Keep, take back the Iron Throne?”

“If Jon had his way, probably.” He must read the confusion on her face because he says, “The one you think is my dad? That’s Jon. He was my father’s best friend. He wants me to have what’s rightfully mine.”

“What do _you_ want?”

“Justice. Revenge. I’m not sure I can tell the difference anymore.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do.”

She isn’t certain who moves first, but the next thing Arya knows, Aegon is kissing her, his body stretched out atop hers. His kisses feel desperate, and Arya understands desperation. As she tries to match his kisses, her fingers digging into his shoulders, she wants to feel anything but the pain that’s plagued her every day since Ilyn Payne took her father’s head. She just wants to feel _good_, and for once someone is offering her that.

Aegon breaks the kiss long enough to pull his shirt over his head and tug Arya’s up as well. As she slips out of it, the grass cool and wet beneath her back, she wonders if this is how she is going to lose her maidenhead: with a man claiming to be a dead Targaryen prince outside the Crossroads on the night he is going to leave. Her parents would be horrified. But she also thinks of Beric and Thoros and Ned-fucking-Dayne, and if there’s one thing she was taught about lords and ladies, it’s that no one wants to marry a lady with a broken maidenhead. If she does this, she’ll control her fate for the first time.

His fingers have started to tug at the laces of her pants when Aegon is wrenched off of her, the sound of flesh connecting with flesh registering in her brain before her eyes can adjust to what is happening.

Gendry is strong. Arya knows this, has seen it when he’s shaped steel and when he kill Polliver’s companions in the forest. She also knows how angry he can get. But this is the first time she’s ever realized that Gendry could beat a man to death with his bare hands, and she’s afraid she’s about to witness it now as he batters Aegon around as if he is a child.

“Gendry, stop!” she shouts, trying to fling herself between them, too concerned to even grab her shirt and cover herself.

Aegon is bleeding, his hands up in a futile attempt to block the blows, and Arya manages to wedge herself in front of him, pushing at Gendry’s chest. The moment he sees her standing in front of him, Gendry stops, afraid of hitting her just as she knew he would, and Arya doesn’t know what hurts her more: the disgust on his face or the hypocrisy of the entire situation.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” she says as Aegon tries to pick himself up, wincing with pain as he presses his shirt against his clearly broken nose. “I wanted it.”

It is as if all the fight goes out of him in one fell swoop, and it breaks Arya’s heart. “You wanted it?”

She nods, crossing her arms over her exposed breasts now that she’s convinced Gendry isn’t going to murder the other man. “I’m not a child. I can – I can _want_ things, you know. You have Jeyne. You think I don’t want that? You don’t think I want to feel good too?”

“With _him_?” he chokes out, and Arya realizes his voice isn’t sharp with anger but thick with emotion. “You want it with him?”

“You want it with _her_. It’s not different.”

“You think it’s not different? You think I fuck Jeyne in the dirt like some whore?”

Arya’s cheeks burn with humiliation as Aegon growls, “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Gendry swears as Aegon hands Arya her shirt, who quickly slips it back on. “You’re a dead man.”

“At least I’m a man,” he retorts, spitting blood onto the ground. “You want it both ways, isn’t that it? You want to fuck whomever you want to fuck, but Arya has to stay some perfect little girl for you so you can what, feel like a hero? She deserves better than that. She deserves better than _you_.”

“Shut up!” Arya snaps, seeing the way Aegon’s words land in the most sensitive spot Gendry has.

Gendry shakes his head, looking at her as if she is a complete stranger. “Well, he’s right about that, isn’t he, m’lady?”

“No, Gendry, I don’t think – “

“What the hells is going on?” the man Aegon called Jon asks from the doorway, the other two men flanking him. 

Gendry holds up his hands, his knuckles bloodied from the blows he rained down on Aegon. “Nothing. Just a stupid bastard forgetting his place.”

“Gendry, wait!” Arya shouts as he retreats towards the forge.

“Let him go,” Aegon says, but Arya ignores him, hurrying towards the forge.

When she tries to open the door, it won’t budge. She pulls and pulls, and it slowly sinks in that for the first time since they’ve known each other, Gendry has barred the door so she cannot follow. Arya beats on the door, shouting his name until her voice goes hoarse, and she starts to cry out of frustration.

“It’s not fucking fair!” she cries, kicking at the door. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

He still doesn’t open the door, and Arya doesn’t understand why he hates her so much for doing something he’s done so many times.

“Come on, sweetling,” Lemore says, someone – likely Aegon – having gone and fetched her. “Let him cool off. Nothing good will come of talking right now.”

Arya looks at the older woman, feeling more lost than she has in years. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Lemore cups her face, wiping away her tears with her thumbs, and the motion reminds her so strongly of her mother, it sets Arya off into a round of fresh tears. “It’ll all look different in the morning.”

Arya returns to Lemore’s room with her, resting her head in her lap as the older woman strokes her hair until she falls asleep. When she wakes in the morning, her face aching from crying, Lemore hands her a cold washcloth to clean her face.

“Is Aegon all right?”

Lemore’s eyebrows arch high, and Arya curses as she realizes she didn’t use his fake name. “A bit battered but he’ll live. Though not if…his father finds out he told you that name.”

“I can keep a secret.”

“I’ve yet to meet a Stark who couldn’t.”

“I should – “ She pushes her tangled hair away from her face. “I have to find Gendry and explain.”

Lemore winces, and Arya’s stomach drops. “He’s not here, darling.”

“What do you mean? Gendry’s always here.”

“Some of your…brotherhood arrived early this morning. Gendry left with them.”

“Who? Which ones?”

“Um…a man with a bow, a man with a yellow cloak, I didn’t catch any names. Jeyne says it will be a day or two until they return.”

“Gendry never leaves. He doesn’t – He’s always here.”

“Perhaps some space will be good, allow you both to gather yourselves.”

“I don’t want _space_; I want my friend!”

“I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’ve been in your situation before and when a man attacks another man like your friend last night, he doesn’t want to hear anything. Give him time, Arya.”

“He’s all I have.”

Lemore rests her hands on Arya’s shoulders. “He doesn’t have to be. My offer still stands. Come with us.”

“I can’t. I just…Even if he hates me, I can’t go. This is my home. Jeyne, Willow, the orphans, everyone…I don’t know where you’re going or what you’re doing, and if it’ll hurt Joffrey, I hope you succeed but…If Gendry’s gone, someone has to protect them, and that’s me.”

“Oh, sweetling.” Lemore pulls her into an embrace, and this time Arya doesn’t fight it. “We’ll come back for you, you know. Even without the beating, I highly doubt Aegon will forget you.”

Arya doesn’t know if Aegon will forget her, but she prays to any god who will listen that Gendry will forget Aegon.


	3. Chapter 3

Gendry returns to the inn with Anguy, Lem, and the rest after ten excruciatingly long days away, and when he dismounts his horse, he walks past Arya as if he hadn’t seen her at all, accepting excited hugs from some of the orphans before making his way to the forge.

For the first time in her life, Arya understands what it means to feel truly alone. And as it always does, her sadness transforms into anger, burning so bright in her chest that Thoros’s Lord of Light himself would be able to see the fire inside her. It must show on her face because Harwin sidles up to her with a grin and holds out one of her favorite sweets.

“Brought you something.”

She knows he means it to be kind, but the sight of it infuriates her even more. “I’m not a fucking child!”

Harwin recoils, shock on his face, and normally she might apologize for being so harsh with him, but she can’t help but hate every last one of them right now for their patronizing smiles, the pats on the head, the little treats slipped to her as if she is Rickon’s – 

No, not Rickon’s age. Rickon is dead, forever a boy of five. And though she isn’t dead, Arya understands now that none of these men will ever see her as anything but a girl of nine.

It’s been a lifetime since she was that girl, and she has no idea how to show them that.

* * *

The rains start suddenly, pouring from the sky with such speed and ferocity that Arya can scarcely believe it. Jeyne says it’s always that way in the Riverlands, but Arya hates it. The ground is too soft to do anything, trapping all of them in the inn until they are all irritating each other, everyone underfoot, and the Brotherhood is unable to leave due to the swelling of the rivers and streams, making fording them potentially life-threatening.

But even trapped in the inn together, Gendry doesn’t look at her, doesn’t acknowledge her. He sits with Anguy, Lem, and Tom as if he has no care in the world, lifting mugs with them, teasing Willow, and being blatant in his flirtations with Jeyne. Arya pretends she doesn’t notice, pretends it doesn’t make her hurt, forcing herself to withstand conversations with Ned, teaching the orphans to play games with the cards Beric made for them, and reading aloud from her books when someone asks. A few travelers straggle in from time to time, but they do not stay long, wanting to reach their homes before the rains make travel even more perilous, and Jeyne frets that they may run out of food for everyone if the rains last too long.

“We’ll make it work,” Willow says with confidence, one of the littlest children on her back, his chubby arms locked around her neck, “and I bet Arya can still bring down a deer in – “

With her back to the inn’s door, Arya does not know what makes Willow stop talking, a look of concern falling over her usually pleasant face, and when she turns, she understands why. Standing just over the threshold, dripping rainwater onto the floor, is Aegon, Septa Lemore, the man Aegon called Jon, and their other two companions. Aegon’s eyes find her almost at once, a grin stretching across his face, yellowing bruises still visible even in the dim light, and Arya doesn’t know if she’s happy for a friendly face or terrified of what will happen next.

“We don’t have enough open rooms for you,” Jeyne states, her voice flat and unfriendly, her mouth turning down into a frown. “And I don’t want the trouble again. You can have a meal, but you’ll have to go after that.”

“We won’t be any trouble,” Septa Lemore promises, pulling off her head covering, wincing at the sogginess of her clothing. “Please, we have tried every other inn and tavern in the area, and they’re all full as well. We cannot reach our destination until the waters recede. We can pay extra.”

“I can’t feed the little ones gold.”

“You can feed them with the supplies we have,” Aegon offers. “Double your rate plus what we have sounds fair for the…trouble from before.”

“What trouble?” Beric asks, and Arya notices he’s tugged the hood of his cloak up to hide his more startling injuries. 

“There’ll be no trouble,” the man called Jon states, his voice as hard as steel. “I’ll make certain of it.”

Arya looks at Jeyne, who looks obviously torn. She sees the way the older woman’s eyes flick towards Gendry, who is glowering murderously as the interlopers, but Arya knows she is going to accept the proposal. Jeyne is many things, but she is practical above all else. Arya knows they do not have any meat left, hunting near impossible in this weather, and the stores in the cellars have dwindled significantly. They need the supplies, especially if they are going to keep feeding everyone.

“One room,” Jeyne relents, “and you’ll mind your manners this time.”

Arya flushes with embarrassment and anger as she realizes someone must have told Jeyne what happened that night. The only person Arya had told was Willow, and though Willow swore she’d keep it to herself, Arya also knows the sisters seldom keep secrets from each other. But if Willow didn’t tell her, then only Gendry could have, and the idea of Gendry telling Jeyne about what he stopped from happening, of Jeyne knowing what she’d tried to do with Aegon makes Arya simultaneously want to scream and disappear from humiliation. 

“Arry!” one of the orphans whines. “It’s your turn!”

Arya turns her attention back to the card game, forcing herself not to look at them as they pass her to make their way upstairs to their room.

* * *

She’ll give Aegon one thing: he’s no coward.

Arya is just tucking into her oatmeal, stomach growling with a desperate wish for bacon, when Aegon descends the stairs without his companions. His blue hair is collected in a knot at the base of his skull, giving him the illusion of short hair, and without the veil of hair, it draws attention to the prettiness of his features. In his black shirt and pants, his skin looks especially fair, and she still isn’t certain if he is truly a lost Targaryen prince but he looks like the princes from Sansa’s girlish fantasies.

With the eyes of the entire Brotherhood on him, Aegon accepts a bowl of oatmeal from Jeyne before crossing the room and taking a seat opposite Arya, an easy smile on his face. “Good morning.”

Mouth still full of food, she grunts, “Morning,” keeping her eyes on her bowl.

“I have to admit, I was a bit hurt when you didn’t say goodbye.”

She scoffs. “You’re mad.”

“Maybe but it’s rather rude for a lady not to say goodbye to a friend.”

“I’m not a lady, and who said you’re my friend?”

“Oh, we’re friends,” he states in an authoritative way that _should_ anger her but instead makes her smile. “We’re too much alike not to be friends. We like the same things.”

“And what are those things?”

“Oatmeal,” he says with a smile, taking a heaping bite before continuing, “riding, swordplay.” His smile turns warmer, more intimate, and it makes Arya’s heart beat harder. “Stargazing.” 

Before Arya can respond, Harwin is standing over them, reaching down and grabbing Aegon’s bowl. “Find another seat.”

Aegon looks up at the former master of horse, seeming to size him up, before realizing the inn is uncommonly still as the rest of the Brotherhood watch, waiting. With the same easy smile, Aegon rises, taking his bowl from Harwin’s hands and obediently moving to a table across the room, three orphans scrambling away to make room for him. Arya looks at Harwin before twisting her head to see Beric, Thoros, and Gendry seated in the corner of the room. It is then she understands Gendry has told _everyone_, and it is a betrayal so deep, she isn’t certain she will ever be able to forgive it.

Grabbing her bowl, Arya glares at them as she walks over to Aegon’s table and takes a seat. He smiles around his spoon but says nothing. They eat their breakfast in silence, the Brotherhood’s eyes on them, and when she finishes, she gets up without a word or backwards glance, refusing to let these men dictate her life anymore.

* * *

The man Aegon called Jon and the Brotherhood calls “Old Griff” does not like her and seems to hate Aegon speaking to her even more than the Brotherhood.

Arya realizes it on the third day of their second stay. The late afternoon rain has tapered to a drizzle for the time being, and the orphans are outside, chasing each other and sliding on the grass into the pond-like puddles that have formed, their giggles and squeals audible even with the doors closed. Anguy and a few of the others have gone into the forest to try to catch some game that may be venturing out, and Gendry is in the forge repairing some of the weapons that were broken during the last raid. Grateful for some peace and quiet, Arya is in the upstairs hallway practicing what Syrio taught her long ago with Needle, breathing deeply with every movement.

“You don’t fight like a Northern girl.”

She stops, turning her head to see Aegon cresting the stairs with a smile on his face. “Fought many girls, have you?”

“I’ve seen men move like that in Braavos, the water dancers. Is that where you learned?”

“I’ve never been to Braavos.” Pushing away the memory of Syrio’s smiling face, she starts again. “My father hired a water dancer for me when we were in King’s Landing. He taught me until…”

“Until?”

“Until they killed him.”

“Your father?”

Her breathing isn’t so even now. “My father. My teacher. My septa. The captain of our guard. Our guard. Everyone.” She stops, swallowing hard. “I don’t even know all of who they killed. It’s just easier to assume.”

“Why?”

She glares. “If you’re really who you say you are, you know why.”

Aegon saunters towards her, reaching for Needle with a question on his face. Somewhat reluctantly, she allows him to take her sword, watches him weigh it in his hand. It’s far too small for his large hand, but he flicks his wrist with the fast sort of flourish that tells her he’s skilled with a blade.

“Because hope hurts more than grief,” he eventually says, an angry, far-off look in his eyes. “Because if you believe they might be alive, every time you see someone with black hair rounding a corner, you wonder if it’s your mother or your sister. Because if you aren’t the last one, if there are more, there’s still the chance you can hurt even more, and you don’t know whether that hurt will destroy you or make you destroy yourself.” He meets her gaze, jaw clenched tight, and Arya doesn’t think she’s ever seen her own pain on someone else’s face. “Because every day you wake up and wonder if it just wouldn’t be worth it to set yourself on fire so long as it means the ones who did this to you get what they deserve.”

“Is that what you’re doing here, setting yourself on fire?”

Aegon hands Needle back to her by the hilt, a sad little smile playing at his lips. “You really don’t know why I’m here?”

“The rain – “

His mouth swallows her words, his hands cupping her face as he kisses her. Arya rises on her toes even as she knows she should pull away, her left hand gripping Needle tight enough to make her fingers ache, her right arm wrapping around Aegon’s neck. He kisses her slow and deep, somehow asking for permission but refusing to be stopped, and though Arya finds it perfectly pleasant, she can’t help but think of Gendry and wonder if this is how he’d kiss her.

Just like last time, Aegon is yanked away from her, but this time it is Jon who pulls him off, his face glowing with anger. Arya takes a step back, sheathing Needle and keeping her eyes on the floor, but she hears him berating Aegon, telling him that he doesn’t have a brain in his head.

“It was a mistake coming back here,” Jon declares, his voice thick with anger but still in a whisper so as not to be overheard by the Brotherhood downstairs. “I never should have allowed it.”

“You don’t _allow_ me to do things, Connington, and I suggest you remember that.”

Arya keeps her eyes on the floor, face giving away nothing, but she files the name away for later: Jon Connington. She remembers House Connington from Maester Luwin’s lessons, one of the few houses of the Stormlands she recalls, and it is only because their seat is called Griffin’s Roost and she wanted to see a griffin. Maester Luwin claimed they weren’t real creatures anymore, having died out long ago, and with this bit of knowledge, he’d eliminated any interest Arya had in learning the houses of the Stormlands.

But as she slips past the arguing men, Arya wonders if she should’ve paid more attention.

* * *

The rains finally stop, the Riverlands as much of a swamp as the Neck, and Arya is so focused on when Aegon might leave again that she doesn’t pay much attention when travelers start coming by again. She is almost out the door of the inn, as eager to be outside as the children, when she hears a fat man at a table near the door laugh, “Must be a nice change for the Kingslayer to actually be able to claim his children.”

Remembering what Tywin said during his brief visit weeks earlier, Arya stops, turning towards the men and demanding, “What did you say?”

The man looks as if he is considering telling her to fuck off, and Arya lets her fingers graze Needle’s hilt at her hip. When he sees the movement, his gaze turns from irritated to wary as he says, “Just talking about the Kingslayer’s wife having his baby this week. Well, babies as it was twins.”

“Who’s his wife?”

“Ned Stark’s girl, the Tully looking one. Always liked Lord Tully myself. He was decent, fair. Nothing like those Frey bastards living in his castle now.”

It is as if a ball of ice has been dropped into her stomach. “The Freys are in Riverrun?”

“Aye. King Joffrey gave it to them for the Red Wedding.”

Her memories of Riverrun are slim, but she remembers its high walls, the play of sunlight on the water. Uncle Edmure took her swimming, showing her how to float on her back, and Grandfather Hoster let her sit in the lord’s chair, letting her pretend to be King of the Riverlands while he was her devoted subject. If she closes her eyes, Arya can still see her mother standing on the banks of the river, her auburn hair fully loose, clapping with pride as Arya finally floated on her own, Uncle Edmure letting the current carry her a few feet before catching her, and Arya looked at her mother and thought she was the most beautiful woman in the entire world.

And now they were dead, and the fucking Freys held Riverrun.

The rage makes her blackout. When Arya comes back to herself, she is in the barn, some of the Brotherhood’s horses in the stables, and she is saddling Harwin’s horse. It is the fastest, everyone says so, and every horse she ever rode had been trained by Harwin and his father; Arya trusts it. Grasping the horn, she swings into the saddle, grasping the reins as tight as she can before giving it a swift, sharp kick that sends the horse off like an arrow from her bow.

The Boltons hold Winterfell. The Freys hold Riverrun. The Kingslayer married and raped her sister, getting twins on her. And the Brotherhood, the only ones left who seemed to give a damn about her, were doing _nothing_ about any of it. They were letting it happen, and even worse, were not even telling her these things were happening.

She hears her name only a moment before Aegon is suddenly riding alongside her, his hand reaching for her reins. Arya tries to jerk away, but he is faster than she expected, twisting his hand into the leather and wrenching it hard enough to make Harwin’s horse rear up and stop, almost throwing Arya from the saddle.

“What the hells are you doing?” Aegon demands, panting hard.

Arya throws her left arm out, her fist connecting with his chest but barely seeming to register. “Leave me alone! Let me go!”

“No! You rode out of the inn like a fucking madwoman, and everyone is in a panic! What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“Riverrun.”

“Why?”

“You know why!”

“I don’t!”

Breath becoming tremulous, she spits, “He gave them Riverrun. They killed my fucking family, and Joffrey gave them Riverrun. He gave the Boltons Winterfell. They aren’t their castles. That’s my mother’s home. That’s my father’s home. And if the Brotherhood isn’t going to do a gods damned thing, I’ll do it myself!”

Releasing his hold on the reins, Aegon sighs. “I understand, Arya, I do, but if you ride for Riverrun, if you show up at a castle that’s practically an island with nothing but your little sword, do you really think you’ll leave it alive?”

“I don’t care so long as he doesn’t.”

Aegon slides down from his saddle, keeping a firm hold on Arya’s reins, and after a moment, Arya dismounts as well. He cups her face between his palms, his hold firm, and she can read the seriousness in his eyes. 

“What the Lannisters did to your family was wrong, and you deserve justice. You deserve vengeance. The Boltons, the Freys, the Lannisters, all of them need to pay for what they did to your family and to mine too. I am going to make them pay.”

“How? Are _you_ going to ride into the Red Keep with _your_ little sword and make it happen?”

Aegon pulls her closer, his face mere inches from hers. “If I tell you what’s going to happen, I need your most solemn promise you won’t tell a soul, not even your blacksmith.”

She’s never kept a secret from Gendry, not really. But it seems as if he has been keeping plenty from her, and so twisted up with anger and grief, Arya swears, “I can keep a secret.”

And so Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, tells her exactly how he plans to retake the Seven Kingdoms and what role he wants Arya to play in that retaking.

* * *

Gendry sleeps like the dead. He always has, even when they were sleeping in the dirt with Hot Pie, and it makes it easy for Arya to slip into his room like she has a thousand times before. And, just as he always has when he sleeps alone, he wears only his skin, body splayed across the narrow mattress, the broad expanse of his back and bare curve of his ass easily visible in the flickering firelight. 

She thinks she should be nervous as she undresses, leaving her breeches, shirt, and small clothes on the floor as she moves towards him, but it’s just Gendry. Even when she hates him, she trusts him, and she knows he would never do anything to truly hurt her.

His skin burns as warm as the forge as she climbs onto the bed and then onto him, stretching out along top his body. Her breasts press against his back, her legs instinctively straddling his hips, and she feels a rush of pleasure between her legs as he moves in his sleep, jostling her some. Arya slips her hands beneath him, resting her palms against his chest, holding him to her in an odd hug, and she presses kisses to his shoulder blade. As she peppers kisses along his skin, he makes a soft, pleased sound deep in his chest, and it inspires Arya to part her lips, suckling at his neck, gathering the taste of salt on her tongue.

Gendry moans, awakening, and Arya isn’t certain if she is excited or terrified as he rolls over, and she does her best to remain atop him, squeezing his hips with her thighs as if she is trying to stay seated on a horse. His sleepy smile of pleasure fades as his eyes focus, and it suddenly occurs to Arya that he might have been hoping it was Jeyne in his bed rather than her.

“Am I dreaming?” he murmurs, using his arms to try to push himself up, and Arya almost starts to cry as she realizes he must dream about her the same way she dreams about him.

She isn’t certain if she’s kissing him correctly. It isn’t like sword fighting or archery where you know right away if you’re doing it right, but she clasps his face between her hands and tries to kiss him the way Aegon’s kissed her, slipping her tongue past his lips. Gendry makes a noise into her mouth that makes her shiver, her nipples tightening, and she feels his cock stirring beneath her ass. One of his hands makes its way into her hair, deepening the kiss, a hint of roughness to it, and Arya chases that feeling, unable to keep from rolling her hips in a bid for friction.

It startles her when Gendry jerks away, his blue eyes wide. She sees the way his eyes flick down towards her tits, down her stomach, ending at the thatch of dark hair between her legs, and he looks almost pained as his hands are now not pulling her towards him but trying to push her away. 

“Arya, no, we can’t – “

“We _can_!” She pushes at his wrists, managing to hook her hands around his neck to keep her perch. “I want you. I want this. I wanted this before I even knew what it was. Don’t you…” Arya swallows hard. “If you don’t want me, I’ll go.”

Gendry looks as torn as she feels, and the relief she feels when he murmurs, “Of course I want you,” is almost enough to make her forget what the future holds.

But as she goes to kiss him again, Gendry pulls back again and adds, “But we _can’t_ do this, Arya. You’re a lady – “

“I’m an orphan,” she cuts in, the words tasting like poison in her mouth, “and my house is gone. You said once you were my family, and I was yours. Do you remember?”

He nods, letting his eyes drift shut as she skims her fingers over his shoulders, across his collarbone, and down his chest. 

“I want this to be with you. I _need_ it to be with you.” She moves closer, resting her forehead against his and closes her eyes as she whispers the words she’s been petrified to even think for years. “I love you.”

She is on her back so fast, Arya hasn’t even realized what’s happened until Gendry is braced over her, the blue of his eyes nearly gone, his pupils large and dark. He kisses her long and hard, making her moan as a calloused thumb rolls over one of her nipples, and she finds herself wishing for Sansa in that moment, wishing she’d had someone to tell her what she’s supposed to do when she finally beds a man.

“I love you,” he pants against her ear, kissing his way down her throat. “I’ll be good to you. I’ll always – I’ll always be good to you.” His tongue slides across her nipple, Arya’s back arching hard to chase the sensation, and she feels him smile against her breastbone before doing the same to her other nipple. “Gods, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

“Shut up, stupid,” she says, feeling herself blush at the compliment, and Gendry chuckles against the concave curve of her stomach. 

“I want to marry you,” he confesses, and Arya wishes she could agree at once, to give him the answer he wants, to live the sort of happy life together that her parents lived.

Instead she closes her eyes tight and buries her face in a pillow as Gendry opens his mouth over her cunt.

She’d seen women take men’s pricks in their mouths while on the road and at Harrenhal, but she didn’t realize it was something men could do too. Arya twists the fingers of her left hand into Gendry’s hair as he works his mouth and tongue against her, the pleasure of it making it impossible to remain still, her body twisting as she chases something she can’t even name. Whatever it is, Gendry seems to know, because he braces his right forearm over her hips, shoulders her thighs farther apart, and works his tongue against the bud at the top of her sex until the pleasure peaks, stealing her breath. 

If this is what fucking is all about, Arya understands why men love it so much. 

“Are you certain?” he pants as he settles over her, his cock brushing against her oversensitive flesh, and Arya nods because she _is_ certain even if she isn’t as sure about how his cock is going to fit inside her or what precisely she’s supposed to do once it _is_ inside her.

It isn’t the worst pain Arya’s ever experienced, but it also isn’t exactly pleasant. Even as slick as she is between her legs, even as slow as Gendry moves, he is big and she is small, and she knows she isn’t the only one uncertain if this is going to work because Gendry keeps asking if she wants him to stop, how it’s all right if they stop now. Arya doesn’t know what precisely counts as officially losing your maidenhead, but she is taking no chances. Instead she digs her nails into his shoulders, presses her hips up, and breathes through the discomfort until Gendry is fully inside of her.

“Don’t move,” she manages, wincing as she shifts her hips, and Gendry nods, holding his body as tight and tense as possible, trying to brush soft kisses against her face.

When she finally gives him permission to move, the look of relief on Gendry’s face almost makes her laugh. It stings as he carefully pulls out and pushes back in, but Arya is less concerned about what is going on with her body as she is with the pleasure on Gendry’s face. He smiles at her as their hips meet again, and she finds herself repeating back the compliment he gave her earlier, telling him how beautiful he is.

Just like she did, he blushes, and Arya kisses him as hard as she can, trying to pour everything she feels into it.

Arya clings to him, Gendry having pulled her legs up until she’d wrapped them around his waist, both of them slick with sweat, and Gendry is moving faster and harder inside her now, an intense look on his face. When he buries his face in her shoulder and moans, Arya feels him spill his seed inside her, and she wrinkles her nose at the odd sensation. 

Sex is strange and messy, and she wonders why mothers and septas don’t spend more time explaining _that_ than discussing why they should only do it with their husbands.

But as Gendry lifts his head from her shoulder, kissing her long and soft, Arya thinks all the strangeness and the mess is worth it.

As she lays in the circle of his arms, her head resting against his chest, Gendry murmurs, “You’re wrong, you know. We’ll make our own house, and you’ll have one again.”

Tears sting her eyes behind her closed eyelids. “Yeah? House Waters, hmm?”

“Maybe.” He kisses the top of her head. “We could still be House Stark. My name doesn’t mean nothing: no histories, no ancestors. I can’t give you Winterfell back but…I could build us a house, a proper one, and we could make sure there are always Starks.”

The tears burn her skin as she whispers, “I’m tired. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He falls asleep soon after, holding her tight, and it takes Arya a bit to extricate herself. As she puts her clothes back on, she removes the note she tucked into her pocket before coming to the room and leaves it on the bedside table. He never bothered to learn to read, despite her offers, but she taught him to recognize his name and when he sees it written, she hopes he’ll take it to Beric or Ned to read to him. It is a coward’s way, and Arya has never considered herself a coward but telling him the truth…

She hopes he forgives her one day.

* * *

With no moon in the sky, it is almost impossible to see anything, but Arya knows the Crossroads and its surroundings better than anyone. She finds Aegon and the others just inside the forest near the road, a saddled horse waiting for her, and even in pitch blackness, Arya can see the disapproval on Jon Connington’s face.

“Are you certain?” Aegon asks her, and Arya cannot help but think of a different man asking her the same question only hours earlier.

Arya nods. 

“It’s all right if – “

“The Lannisters took everything from me,” she cuts in, forcing steel into her voice. “If this is what it takes, then this is what I’m doing.”

Aegon smiles, nodding. “I won’t let you down.”

As Arya mounts her horse, she thinks that of the people in this forest, _she_ is the one letting people down, betraying their trust, breaking their hearts.

She just hopes they’ll understand why she had to do this.


	4. Chapter 4

She weds Aegon in a crumbling sept near the Stormlands, stumbling over the words of the vows both because she’s only ever attended weddings held in godswoods but also because she does not want to say them. Arya has lied before and she’ll lie again, but it feels different to lie to the gods. If the seven heavens exist, she hopes her parents aren’t too disappointed in her for this, that they understand she is doing what she has to do for the North, for the Riverlands, for Sansa and her babes.

Her father married her mother to save his sister, to gain Grandfather Hoster’s army, to stop a tyrannical king. He gave up whatever life he had planned for himself – Ashara Dayne, raising Jon as a trueborn son, staying in the Vale – to protect the ones he loved, and Arya witnessed firsthand how much he and her mother loved each other. Just because you don’t love someone on the wedding day doesn’t mean you won’t love them someday, and it is that belief that allows the vows to fall off of her tongue.

Jon Connington scowls throughout the entire ceremony, his arms crossed over his chest like a petulant child. Lemore cries, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. When Aegon removes her plain cloak and replaces it with a Targaryen cloak buried in one of their trunks, Arya almost cries as well, clenching her jaw so tight, she thinks her teeth might shatter.

Aegon’s kiss is perfectly fine, sweet and lingering, and when the septon declares them Lord and Lady Targaryen, King and Queen of the Seven Kingdom, Arya can only think of Gendry and their house that will never be.

* * *

“Please don’t.”

Arya doesn’t mean to speak when Aegon moves to start unlacing her gown, but the words fly past her lips too quickly to catch. If her new husband is surprised by them, his face doesn’t give it away. Instead he smiles with presumed understanding, touches her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and assures her, “All brides are nervous on their wedding nights.”

“I’m not a maid.”

This time there _is_ surprise on his face. And then it gives way to resignation. “The blacksmith.”

“I’m not sorry.” When he says nothing, she adds, an edge of defensiveness to her voice, “You’re no maid either!”

“No, I’m not.” He sighs. “I won’t rape you. I’ve never bedded an unwilling woman, and I won’t start now.”

“I won’t always be unwilling,” she assures him, uncertain if that’s the truth or not. “I’m just – Not tonight, is all. I don’t – We don’t really know each other. We don’t love each other.”

“You love the blacksmith?”

“I love my family,” she dodges, “and the North.” His mouth starts to turn into a pout, and it makes something in her snap. “Don’t act like I tricked you! _You_ suggested this. If all you wanted was to fuck me – “

“It was certainly going to be a pleasant benefit.” Aegon scrubs at his face. “But I _do_ like you, and if you want to wait, we’ll wait.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” His smile isn’t completely convincing, but Arya appreciates the attempt. “We have the rest of our lives, hmm?”

Arya knows he doesn’t mean it to sound like a threat.

It still feels like one.

* * *

Nymeria finds her in the Stormlands, entering their camp and terrifying her five traveling companions. Duck, Jon, and Aegon are all reaching for their blades while Haldon and Lemore scramble away, but Arya simply meets her halfway, her direwolf at eye level with her. She buries her face in Nymeria’s fur, inhaling the wild scent of her, and Arya could almost swear she smells the wet leaves of the godswood’s floor there.

“Hi, girl,” she murmurs, scratching Nymeria beneath her muzzle the way she liked as a pup, and the wolf sits at once, happy to submit to her affections. “Where’ve you been, hmm?”

“That’s – That’s a direwolf!”

Arya looks at Haldon, unable to keep from smirking. “Are you certain you’re only a _half_ maester?”

“So the stories were true then?” Aegon ventures, lowering his blade but keeping it unsheathed. Arya wants to tell him that if Nymeria wants to attack him, he’ll never raise the sword in time, but instead she keeps fussing over the wolf and waits for Aegon to continue. “I’d heard – Well, we heard – Your brother – “

“His wolf was called Grey Wind,” she interrupts, feeling the hot burn of grief in her chest as she always does when thinking of what happened to Robb and their mother. “He fought beside him in every battle. The only way the Freys could get to him was by locking him away.”

“There haven’t been direwolves south of the Wall in…centuries,” Haldon says, blatant fascination on his face. “Where did you get them?”

“My brothers were with my father when they found the mother and a dead stag. Jon said it looked like the wolf tried to fell the stag, but the stag’s antlers got her. There were six pups.” Arya’s grip tightens on Nymeria’s scruff, and she somehow understands Nymeria’s whine isn’t because her grip is too rough. “One for each us.”

“And that’s yours?”

She nods. “Her name’s Nymeria.”

“How many are left?” Connington asks, the bluntness of his voice making her glare. “They could be useful.”

“We didn’t train them to kill. They were…They were our pets.”

“Your pet is as big as a destrier with teeth that could snap a man’s bones,” Connington counters. “Where are the others?”

Arya finally straightens, and Nymeria turns to face the same direction, a low rumble coming from her body. “Ghost is at the Wall with Jon. Grey Wind died at the Twins. Lady was killed before we ever reached King’s Landing. I don’t know what Theon Greyjoy did to Bran and Rickon’s wolves. If they’re alive, they’re probably in the North somewhere.” Resting a hand atop Nymeria’s broad head, she can’t help but snap, “Dragons would be useful. Where are _they_?”

Connington stalks away from her, and Arya returns to her tent. Nymeria follows her inside before lying down, her large body a physical barrier to anyone who would try to enter.

Nymeria sleeps like that until they reach Storm’s End, recently taken by the Golden Company. Only when they have reached the unfamiliar castle does Nymeria bump the flat of her head against Arya’s hip and then disappear into the trees.

“What an odd animal,” Lemore remarks as Aegon helps her down from her horse.

_She is my soul_, Arya almost says before instead shrugging. “She does as she pleases.”

Arya envies her that.

* * *

The gown is Targaryen red, sleeveless like a Dornish dress Arya once saw in a book Ned Dayne gave her, a black ribbon cinching it at her waist to give her a more defined figure. It is too long, and the seamstress fixes it quickly as Arya stands still on the stool, staring at herself in the looking glass. Whatever it is made of is soft and light, little more than a whisper against her skin, and the back of it is open, revealing each vertebra. There is nothing about it that reminds Arya of the gowns Cersei used to wear around the Red Keep, and she supposes she’s grateful for that. If she is going to play at being queen, she does not want to be a queen like that.

Lemore is the one who pins the circlet into her hair. Obsidian and rubies, it rests upon the next of braids the septa had woven her long hair into and seeing it there makes Arya want to vomit. 

“You look beautiful.”

Arya meets her gaze in the looking glass. “You’re beautiful.”

She doesn’t wear her head covering today, her yellow hair gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck. When she smiles, it looks as sad as Arya feels. “I was once.”

“Did it ever make your life easier?”

“Not when it counted.” Lemore rests her hands upon Arya’s shoulders and leans into her, the point of her chin resting on her hand until their faces are side-by-side in the reflection. “And that’s why a woman who only relies on being beautiful doesn’t last long in this world.”

Arya turns to face her, studying the older woman’s face for a minute before declaring, “I don’t believe you’re really a septa.”

Lemore smirks. “And I don’t believe you really love Aegon.”

“I don’t.”

“And I’m not.” Her smirk fades. “But what we both are, what this world has made us, is survivors. We do what we have to do to protect the people we love, and we put aside what we want to make that happen.”

Arya says nothing, swallowing down the lump in her throat.

“I don’t know what he’s promised you,” Lemore continues, “but Aegon isn’t like us. Aegon has survived because _we_ made certain he would. When it comes time to make the difficult decisions, he won’t be well-suited to it. He’ll always need you more than you’ll ever need him.”

“He has an army, the Stormlands, Dorne – “

“But he’s a man who grew up far away from Westeros, a man who doesn’t know anything but what we’ve told him. Men will follow him, but no matter what he does, they won’t trust him, not when the memory of Aerys and Rhaegar cling to him.”

“I just want to go home.”

“If the past twenty years have taught me anything, it’s that home becomes where your children are.”

“That’s why you stay with Aegon, because he’s your child?”

Lemore’s face cracks, revealing a glimpse of grief so exquisite, even Arya isn’t certain she understands it. “I gave up everything for him. You’ll understand one day.”

Arya thinks of her mother, of the utter devastation on her face and in her body when Bran fell, of the desperate way she’d embraced Arya when they’d said goodbye at Winterfell, all but pleading for her to be careful in King’s Landing, and Arya knows her mother loved her to the very depths of her soul. Mayhaps that’s how all mothers love their children, if Lemore is to be believed. 

But Arya can hardly comprehend that she is Aegon’s _wife_, so considering how she will love his children is not even an option.

When she joins Aegon in the great hall, his grin is so broad, the kiss on her cheek so warm, a part of Arya wishes she could love him.

And as she meets Lemore’s gaze over his shoulder, she suspects Lemore knows exactly how little Arya loves her husband.

* * *

The knight and squire arrive at Storm’s End a few weeks behind Arya and Aegon, and she only learns of their arrival when she overhears the knight bellowing her mother’s name.

There is no godswood left at Storm’s End, only charred remnants left from some Red Woman that Robert’s brother Stannis follows, but Arya finds bits of weirwoods still left. She is certain she looks like a madwoman, dirty and sooty, as she tries to assemble the bits of white wood into a little altar, but when she’d asked about getting a sapling to plant, Haldon confessed he had no idea where they’d get one. Better a bastardized godswood than none at all, Arya figures, and so she is sweating in the uncomfortable humidity when she hears someone shouting, “I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn Stark!”

Arya drops her tools, rushing across the yard. She finds some Golden Company soldiers trying to subdue an armorer knight near as large as the Hound, the squire considerably smaller but bleeding from his nose as he struggles, and as the knight’s helm is knocked from his head, Arya realizes the knight isn’t a man at all.

“Let her go!” Arya orders, grasping the elbow of one of the soldiers and pulling. The soldier turns, raising his hand as if to strike her, but when he sees who she is, the soldier obeys at once, dropping to his knee in deference. For the first time, Arya is grateful for it.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the soldier stutters. “I did not realize it was you. We were only trying to protect – “

“I don’t care what you were doing. You put your hands on a lady?”

The soldier’s eyes flick towards the large woman. “She ain’t no lady, Your Grace.”

“If you don’t want me to have _her_ take your heads, I suggest you get out of my sight.” When the soldiers hesitantly rise, exchanging uncertain glances, she adds, “_Now!_”

Once the men have scurried away, Arya reaches into her pocket and hands the squire a handkerchief. He presses it to his nose with a nod of his head, and the lady knight takes the knee again as she begins, “Your Grace – “

“Oh, seven hells, get up. And my name is Arya. You can call me that.” When the knight opens her mouth, she cuts in, “And not Lady Arya, just Arya. I heard you saying my mother’s name. Who are you?”

The woman swallows hard, and Arya suspects she has practiced whatever she is about to say. “My name is Brienne of Tarth. I am - _was_ \- a member of Lord Renly Baratheon’s guard. Your mother saved my life, and I swore my sword to her that day. What she asked of me in return was to protect her daughters and return them to the North.”

“So, have you come to protect me or kidnap me?”

Her lips twitch as if she is tempted to smile. “Neither, your – Arya. I was in King’s Landing, and I spoke to your sister Sansa. She ordered me to come to you.”

“Why? She needs protection far more than I do. What they’ve done to her – “

“Lady Sansa _is_ safe, I swear it. Ser Jaime, he…cares for her in his own way. He’s sent her to Casterly Rock, her and the children, for safekeeping. Prince Tommen is with them.”

“She has twins, yes, a boy and a girl?”

Brienne shakes her head. “Two girls, Joanna and Lyarra. They’re identical in every way. They have your mother’s look.”

Arya glances up into the sun, blinking away her tears as she imagines Sansa with two little girls in her arms. Exhaling sharply, she looks at the bloodied squire and asks, “What about you? Did you swear an oath too?”

He shakes his head as Brienne answers, “No, Podrick is simply my squire.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Arya considers the two. Finally she says, “You can stay then. I’ll talk to Aegon. If you served Renly, you must know the castle. Go to the kitchens, get yourself something to eat, and I’ll have rooms made up for you. But you aren’t staying long.”

“Why not? I just said – “

“I know what you said, and I appreciate it. But my sister has children, and those children are the heirs to Winterfell. I’ll be fine here. I’m not in danger.”

“King Joffrey – “

“King Joffrey has wanted me dead since I was 9-years-old. I’m not afraid of him or the Lannisters or their armies. I want you to get Sansa and her girls, and I want you to make sure they’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For when Sansa can take them back to Winterfell.” Brienne starts to object, but Arya insists, “I don’t need to be saved, Brienne. Every choice I’ve made, I’ve made of my own free will. Sansa has not. A fortnight here and then you leave for Casterly Rock.”

Brienne looks as if she wants to object again but she inclines her head in agreement.

* * *

Aegon is fucking one of the kitchen girls. Arya thinks she should be more upset about it, tries to imagine how her mother would’ve reacted if she’d overheard one of the servants detailing how she’d bedded her husband, but instead Arya only feels relief. If Aegon is fucking Erynne from the kitchens, he isn’t trying to fuck her.

Erynne is a pretty girl, tall and slender, with curly black hair and a spattering of freckles on her face. She is about Arya’s age, smiles at everyone, and seems absolutely terrified of Arya each time their paths cross. Arya wants to laugh after it happens a few times. Erynne is not built for adultery, not if she is so easily rattled.

Connington warns Aegon against impregnating the girl. Arya learns this from Jayda, another kitchen girl who is about ten and will tell anyone’s secrets for sweets or coin. She tells Arya how Aegon apologized as he gave Erynne moon tea, how he watches her drink it after they fuck to guarantee she does not try to improve her station by giving birth to a king’s bastard. Jayda devours two pastries as she recounts Erynne telling the other girls how Connington worries a Blackfyre bastard, as well as “dishonoring” Ned Stark’s daughter, will turn potential allies against them.

“It don’t bother you, the king fucking her?” Jayda asks, licking icing from her fingers. “Silla threw a pot at Old Jim’s head when she caught him with Berta from the laundries.”

“Marriage is complicated.” Arya gives her a silver stag, which Jayda quickly tucks into her tunic. “You practicing your letters in the book I gave you?”

Jayda nods at once, her wide grin revealing the gap between her front teeth. “Filled a whole page with my name! I’ll bring it next time.”

As Jayda heads back to the kitchens, Arya considers what the girl asked. It is why when, she and Aegon sup alone in his solar later, she asks him, “Do you want me to demand you stop fucking Erynne?”

Aegon’s fork hovers midair, surprise on his face. Setting the utensil back down, he admits, “I wasn’t aware you knew.”

“Everyone knows.”

He winces. “Wonderful.” 

“I’m not trying to shame you or anything. I just…don’t know what you want me to do about it. If you want me to pretend – “

“I want to share a bed with my wife,” Aegon interrupts, sounding more pained than angry. “I want to be married. I want the girl I met in the Riverlands, the one told stories and shot arrows and kissed me like she wanted me.” He sighs. “I want…_more_.”

“I don’t know if I have more. I’m sorry if I made it seem as if – “

“You made it seem as if you wanted Winterfell and Riverrun and the deaths of those who wronged you. You never made me any promises, Arya. I shouldn’t have expected them.”

“We don’t - _You_ don’t owe me anything. If you want to put me aside, if you want – “

“I don’t want people like the Freys and the Boltons to hold anything in this world. Whether you’re my wife or not, they won’t keep what they’ve stolen any more than the Lannisters will. You may not have made me promises, but I made you some and I intend to keep my word.”

“And after? When you win and they’re defeated, what happens then?”

Aegon’s smile is pained but genuine. “Then I hope you’ve fallen in love with me. And if you haven’t, I’ll…release you.”

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“I didn’t lock you in the Tower of Joy but…I don’t think you consider yourself free.”

Arya bites her lower lip hard. Finally she says, “You deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

“If anyone in this world knows people don’t always get what they deserve in this world, it’s us.” Lifting his fork again, he requests, “Tell me about your day. Have you taught all the children to read yet?”

She really does enjoy his company. That’s the cruelest part of all of this. In another life, Arya thinks she might not have minded marrying Aegon Targaryen at all.

But in _this_ life, she met Gendry Waters first, and she isn’t certain she can ever let him go.

* * *

It is little Jayda, of all people, who upends her life.

Arya has a soft spot for the girl, even without her use as a spy, and she has no idea if Jayda’s father will return from the North where he marched with Stannis Baratheon. She’s already decided that, if Jayda ends up an orphan, she is taking the girl back to Winterfell with her, and Aegon finds her love for the girl amusing. He calls Jayda her “little shadow,” and Arya doesn’t know how to explain to him that having Jayda around like this reminds her of what it was like to be a big sister to Bran and Rickon.

They are curled up on the chaise in Arya’s rooms, Jayda trying to sound out some words, when a strange sensation literally _hits_ Arya in the stomach. She gasps, one hand falling to her midsection, and Jayda pauses, concerned.

“Are you all right? Want me to find the maester?”

Arya waits, seeing if the sensation hits again. “I’m not sure. I don’t know what happened.”

“Is it down by your lady’s place on the side? Because there was a woman in the kitchens once, she had a terrible pain down there and the maester tried to cut her open to save her, but whatever was rotten in her exploded and she died.”

It’s hardly the most comforting thing anyone has ever said to her. “No, it’s higher than that. It was more – “ She gasps as it strikes again, firmer this time. Arya grabs Jayda’s hand and puts it against her stomach. When the feeling hits again, she asks, “Did you feel it?”

Jayda looks at her as if she is mad. “_That_? That’s just your babe.”

Arya freezes. “What?”

“Are you japing with me?”

“Jayda, I swear to the gods – “

“You have a babe in you. You didn’t know that?”

“How do _you_ know that?”

She shrugs. “Just…lots of women at Storm’s End have had babes, and my mum used to help the midwife before she passed. You don’t have a bump like most of the ladies, but you’re a bit bigger. And your teats, they’re bigger too. You were just complaining the other day about having to let your gowns out again.”

“I’ve just been eating more. There wasn’t much food where I was before – “

“But you don’t bleed either.” Jayda lowers her voice as if she’s finally found something that embarrasses her to discuss. “I heard some of the girls in the laundries talking about how they never have to change your sheets, not for bleeding or for – for the king visiting you. They thought you might not have flowered yet since you’re not quite six-and-ten. Plus, you never eat the fish at dinner.”

“I don’t care for fish.”

“Right but you push it away now, so you don’t have to smell it. All the breeding ladies complain about smells. And now it’s moving so it’s quickened, so you’ll probably have it in a few moons or so.”

Arya shakes her head, feeling as if she doesn’t understand the Common Tongue. “I don’t – No. No.”

Jayda shifts, wrapping her thin arms around Arya’s body in an attempt at comfort. “I won’t tell anyone. Not even if they give me a whole bag of dragons or all the cakes I could ever want. I swear it, Arya.”

The wheels in her brain spinning as fast as they can Arya manages, “Thank you, Jayda. Could you – could you do me a favor?”

The girl jumps to her feet at once, nodding enthusiastically.

“I need you to go find Brienne and tell her to come to my rooms.”

By the time Jayda returns with Brienne, Arya has already formulated a plan, chaotic and likely to get them all killed as it is. She rises when Brienne enters, dismissing Jayda, and the older woman stands stiff at attention in a way that reminds Arya of Ser Rodrik when her father would give him orders.

“You needed me, my lady?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you to go to Casterly Rock quite yet.”

Brienne nods. “You’d have me stay here?”

“Not exactly.” Arya takes a deep breath, trying to infuse her voice with far more confidence than she feels. “I need you to kidnap me after all.”


	5. Chapter 5

When she hands Brienne the scissors, the older woman looks pained as she asks if Arya is certain. Arya smirks, thinking of the filthy alley where Yoren hacked off her hair with his blade, and assures her this isn’t the first time she’s worn her hair short. Twice she has to spur Brienne on to cut it shorter, the last time snapping that if she wasn’t able to do it, she’d have Podrick finish it, and Brienne sets her jaw and finishes doing what Arya demanded.

There is near nothing left of Arya’s hair, her hair as short as it could be without shaving it. It makes the bones of her face more prominent, emphasizing the horse face Jeyne Poole used to tease her about a lifetime ago, and the short hair makes her look far younger than nearly sixteen. When combined with the tunic and trousers she borrows from Podrick, she looks like just another boy from the Stormlands without a penny to his name.

“It’ll grow back,” Jayda tries to offer in comfort, rubbing her hand over Arya’s head. “I had to chop off all my hair once because of the lice, and it came back just fine.”

Arya smiles at the little girl. “Thank you, Jayda.”

They cannot light a fire for fear of drawing attention to their position in the forest, and Arya can read the nervousness in both Brienne and Podrick. As she passes her portion of bread to Jayda, who devours it at once, she says, “I know I’ve put both your lives in danger, and I’m sorry for that.”

Brienne shakes her head at once. “I made a vow – “

“I’m sure my mother didn’t mean for this.” Drawing her cloak around her shoulders, she adds, “And you aren’t going to like what I ask next, so mayhaps you should prepare yourself now.”

Even in near darkness, Arya sees the blood drain from Brienne’s face. 

“You’re a rather conspicuous escort, Brienne. We may be able to disguise ourselves, but there’s no disguising you.” Seeing how the woman’s face falls, she moves forward, resting her hand atop Brienne’s. “I’m glad of it. You’re strong and powerful, and if my mother trusted you, you’re an honorable person. All of those things are what I want you to be to protect Sansa and her girls.”

“What about – “ Jayda begins but Arya swings an arm back, hitting the girl in the upper arm and silencing her. 

“Everyone knows I ordered you to go to Casterly Rock. _Aegon_ knows that. And he knows I’d never go there with you, not even to see Sansa, so you still have to go there. That way, if one of Aegon’s men finds you, you can swear you have no idea where I am.”

“I will not leave you defenseless – “

“You’re not.” She points to Podrick’s saddle. “You’re going to give me that bow, and I have my sword as well.”

“Lady Arya – “

“I survived for years without a sworn shield, Brienne. I can survive again.” She squeezes the woman’s hand. “Go to Sansa. Tell her I’m fine. Protect her daughters. Tell her…tell her we’ll be together again at Winterfell just like Father would’ve wanted. And tell her – tell her I’m sorry for everything.”

“I don’t agree with this, Lady Arya. Anything could happen – “

“My father was Hand of the King and was in the Red Keep when his enemies captured him. There is no safe place in this world, Brienne, and I will never be able to live with myself if I know my sister is with those people with no protection.”

“This is a terrible idea.”

Arya shrugs. “It’ll hardly be the last one I have.”

* * *

Jayda sits in front of Arya on their horse, clutching the horn of the saddle for dear life, and complaining endlessly about how riding so hard and fast hurts her. If Arya didn’t love the girl so much, she’d throw her from the saddle and keep on riding.

“I hate horses,” Jayda grouses as Arya cleans a rabbit she caught, the metallic scent of the blood making her stomach churn. 

“You’d hate walking so far more.” Tossing aside the skin, Arya wipes her dagger on the long grass. “It’s a long way North, and you’re the one who insisted on coming.”

“I couldn’t let you go alone! What if you need me?”

“To drive me mad?”

Jayda glowers as Arya starts a fire and begins to cook the rabbit. As she’s spinning the rabbit on her makeshift spit, Jayda asks, “Why didn’t you tell Brienne about the babe?”

“Because she never would’ve gone if she’d known about it.”

“Won’t King Aegon try to find you? You have his heir.”

“It’s not his heir.” As if the child inside her wants to emphasize the point, its foot connects solidly with Arya’s ribs. “And not getting found is my specialty.”

Jayda is quiet as the rabbit cooks, and Arya is grateful for the silence. Everything that has happened over the past week has happened so quickly, she hasn’t had any time to sort any of it out in her head. It is as if the world has started spinning at twice the speed it normally does, and Arya cannot get her balance. She’d thought marrying Aegon was the right choice, the only way to get back Winterfell and Riverrun and make her enemies pay. She thought that was what she wanted. And it _is_ still what she wants, but she also knows what it’s like for a bastard to grow up in a great house. Even if Aegon let her keep the child, even if the child she carries _doesn’t_ look like Gendry, she remembers the way her mother looked at Jon Snow, remembers the way Jon would try to sink into the background whenever her mother was near. She doesn’t want that for this child. 

Of course, she isn’t certain what she _does_ want for this child. She isn’t certain about anything anymore except that she needs to find Gendry.

* * *

It starts to snow when they are still two days away from The Crossroads. Their journey is still slow moving, downright glacial somedays between Jayda’s complaints, Arya needing to make water far more frequently, and their tiring mount. Jayda shivers all through the first night of the snow, her body shaking hard enough to rattle her bones, and Arya tries to wrap herself around the little girl, tries to imbue some warmth into her body.

The first time it snowed when she was on the road with Gendry and Hot Pie, she’d shivered like Jayda, a Northern girl who hadn’t realized how many days she’d spent in warm halls and thick furs, far more pampered than she ever thought she was. He’d wrapped his arms around her then, muscular but awkward, still more boy than man then, and he’d told her she was shaking the ground, shivering so hard. She dug her elbow into his ribs but didn’t shake him off, and when she woke in the morning, her joints didn’t ache from the cold.

Arya blames the tears on the babe. The damned thing is wreaking havoc on everything: her emotions, her body, her plans, her _life_. 

“I thought it was spring,” Jayda chatters when they set out the next morning, the snow falling harder, and Arya tries to spur the horse on faster, tries to get them to safety quicker.

“Must have been a false spring. My father told me about those.”

Her aunt had been stolen by Rhaegar Targaryen during a false spring. The bit of trivia floats up in her head from some place, and Arya can almost hear Old Nan’s voice in her ear, lamenting when little Lyanna was lost to them forever during the false spring.

She hopes the Boltons didn’t hurt Old Nan or Hodor or little Beth Cassel or any of the dozens of men, women, and children Arya remembers. They were good, innocent people who didn’t deserve to be hurt simply because they served her house. Of course, Arya knows they are likely as dead as everyone else she loved.

“I’m scared, Arya,” Jayda whimpers when instead of making camp, Arya insists on riding the rest of the way to the inn. 

“Don’t be scared. It’s just a little snow.”

“More than a little.”

She isn’t wrong. The snow is sticking, deep enough that it almost reaches the tops of Arya’s boots, and it’s blowing hard enough to make visibility difficult. Still Arya spurs the horse on, knowing if they stop, there’s a chance they might not be able to start again. Uncle Benjen used to tell stories about how the snow could be deadlier than wildlings at the Wall, and if the Lannisters, the Freys, and the Boltons couldn’t kill her, Arya will be damned if she lets winter do it.

By the time their horse stumbles its way to the Crossroads, the snow has drifted higher. Arya’s fingers are completely numb as she slides out of the saddle, her hips screaming with pain. Jayda almost falls on her, landing hard in the snow on hands and knees, and they both struggle to get her back on her feet. There is dim light emanating from the inn’s windows, and Arya urges Jayda towards the door as she struggles to lead the horse into the barn. By the time she makes her way from the barn to the inn door, her clothes are soaked through from the snow, feet feeling as heavy as aurochs, and the babe has decided to make its displeasure known by somehow grinding into her hipbone, making movement even more painful. 

Seeing Willow and Jeyne bustling about the room, ordering orphans to action as Willow stokes the fire and strips Jayda of her outer layer of clothing, makes Arya’s heart crack open. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed the Heddle sisters, how important they’d become to her in the years she’d spent here. She is almost happy to hear Jeyne berating her for being a fool for taking a child out in this weather and when Arya pushes back her hood to reveal her face, Jeyne stops, still as a statue.

“Seven fucking hells.”

Willow turns, her face going from suspicion to excitement to concern so fast, Arya can hardly track it. “Arya!”

She accepts Willow’s embrace, inhaling the sweet scent of her, and manages not to slap her friend’s hand away when she touches Arya’s head and asks, “What the hells did you do to your hair?”

Jeyne, having shaken off her shock, is moving again, stripping Arya of her cloak and outer clothing with the brutal efficiency Willow showed Jayda. “You’ll freeze to death if you don’t get changed. I’m not hanging for letting the queen die in my inn.”

“Arya’s the queen now?” one of the orphans asks, her brow furrowed in confusion, but any further questions are killed at once by Jeyne’s glare.

“Thought you were dead, you know,” Jeyne snaps, nearly tearing Arya’s tunic as she jerks it over her head, tossing it behind her with an order for one of the orphans to fetch dry clothes from the trunks. “You just up and vanished in the middle of the night with that – Well, guess he’s the king now, hmm? That’s what we needed, another bloody king.”

“I didn’t vanish – “

“And then you go and run off on the king too,” Jeyne rushes on, a muscle in her jaw jumping with tension. “They think the Lannisters stole you.” She snorts. “As if you’d let that happen. You’d slit your own throat first.”

She isn’t wrong, and Arya wonders for the first time if Jeyne Heddle knows her better than she ever thought. “I didn’t mean to worry – “

“Don’t apologize to me like you’re still a young one ‘cause you ain’t.” Taking a bundle of clothes from one of the orphans, Jeyne thrusts them at her. “And I’m not the one who deserves an apology from you.”

Arya flinches. “Where is he?”

The anger in Jeyne’s face gives way to something sadder, more still. “Not here.”

“Will he – Is he with Beric and Thoros? Will they be back soon?”

“He left the day after you did, and we haven’t seen him since.” On someone else’s face, Arya would’ve called Jeyne’s expression pity. “You came a long way for nothing.”

Arya manages to put on the dry clothes, help Jayda finish dressing, and gets them both bundled beneath furs on one of the beds upstairs before she allows herself to cry, tears silently coursing down her cheeks until she falls asleep.

* * *

Jayda loves it at the Crossroads. 

Every morning Arya wakes to an empty bed, Jayda having already hurried downstairs to be with the other children and help Willow and Jeyne in the kitchens. Willow teases Arya that unlike the Brotherhood, she actually brought someone to them who knows how to work, and Jayda is able to quickly establish herself near the top of the pecking order, serving in a castle, being Arya’s companion, and knowing how to read some making her unique among them.

“You haven’t told anyone my secret, have you?” Arya asks one evening when she’s indulged Jayda’s request to feel the babe moving, the young girl pressing her entire face against Arya’s middle.

There is no guile in her big eyes when she looks up at Arya and swears. “But…shouldn’t we tell Willow or Jeyne? It can’t be a secret forever. Eventually it’s got to come out of you.”

Arya knows this. It’s the thought that chases her even when she’s asleep. Everything she knows about having children comes from her mother, and she was only five when Rickon was born. All she really remembers if her mother getting very fat, taking many naps, and then one day Father brought them all into her chambers to meet Rickon. She understands how a child comes out, how it can take an extraordinarily long time, how women can die in the birthing bed, but Arya doesn’t know the details, doesn’t know how to prepare. And with Gendry…somewhere else, if she dies in the birthing bed, she has no idea what will become of her child, and the thought haunts her.

She wants her child to have a pack. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. That’s what her father always said.

As cold as it is, as often as they stoke the fires, all of them wear multiple layers, cloaks, and furs. Everyone is hidden and bulky, cumbersome in their movements, and it helps Arya hide. Now when she is not wrapped up, it is easy to see the bulge of her stomach against the front of her shirt, and while her appetite is ravenous, no one would believe it was simple weight gain. With no maester or midwife, only Jayda’s memory of helping her mother to guide her, Arya supposes she will have the babe within the next moon’s turn, and there is no sign of winter’s resurgence ending anytime soon.

She pretends each time she looks out the window she isn’t looking for _him_, hoping he’s somehow sensed she’s back and needs him.

She pretends it doesn’t break her heart each time she doesn’t find him.

* * *

The pain in her lower back in unlike anything she’s ever felt, so sharp it steals her breath, but there have been so many strange aches and pains since this babe started growing, Arya thinks it’s just another hellish part of pregnancy. Each time the pain starts, she holds her breath, waiting for it to pass, before continuing peeling the potatoes she volunteered to help Willow prepare for the next batch of stew. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Willow asks when Arya sets down her knife, gripping the edge of the table as she tries to breathe through this round of pain.

“Cramps,” she manages when the pain starts to abate, picking the knife up again. 

“Ugh, I swear, it’s like the gods cursed us. Moonblood isn’t bad enough, we have to hurt with it too?” She scoffs. “Men have no idea how terrible it all is.”

Arya nods, the words not even truly registering in her brain. She has only managed to peel another two potatoes when the pain starts again, sharper somehow this time, and the cry escapes her lips as she drops everything in her hands, grasping at her back. Willow is on her feet at once, asking if she is all right, and all Arya can do is shake her head, crying out again as the pain seems to worsen before abating. 

“What’s going on?” Jeyne asks as she comes out of the kitchens, Jayda and Rory at her back, their arms weighted down with more sacks of vegetables from the stores. 

“Something’s wrong with Arya. She said it’s cramps but…”

“I’m fine,” Arya lies, trying to get to her feet. “I just need to lie down.”

“Are you sure – “

Willow hasn’t even finished her question before Arya is gripping the table again, feeling as if her back has been opened by a blade. She almost collapses from the sudden onslaught, and Willow and Jeyne are both at her side, catching her by the elbows to keep her upright.

“This isn’t cramps,” Jeyne states. “I don’t even know where the nearest maester is anymore. The snow – “

“It’s the babe!” Jayda blurts out, dumping her armload of food onto the counter as she rushes to Arya. “She’s having the babe!”

If she wasn’t in such excruciating pain, Arya would laugh at the looks of disbelief on the Heddle sisters’ faces. If she wasn’t in such excruciating pain, she would throttle Jayda for breaking her promise. But as it feels as if this child is trying to exit her body by way of her back, Arya can do neither of those things.

Instead she chokes out, “Help.”

She isn’t certain how they get her upstairs or who helps her out of her multiple layers of clothing. She also isn’t certain why, halfway through undressing her, she seems to make water despite having no urge to do so. When she is finally naked, they help her onto the bed, the swollen curve of her stomach pointing towards the sky.

“When you’re done having this baby, I’m going to kill you,” Willow tells her as Jeyne stokes the coals in the fireplace to heat the room up, barking orders at the orphans to fetch things. Only Jayda refuses to budge from Arya’s side, snapping back at Jeyne when Jeyne tries to send her out, and Arya hopes Jayda will be this protective of the babe. They will be a small pack, but they’re still a pack.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, you are not, or you would’ve told me! _Three_ moons, Arya! You’ve been here _three_ moons and you didn’t tell me! How could you not – “

“Willow.”

Willow looks at her older sister, something silent passing between them, before Willow sighs, helping Arya scoot higher up on the pillows. “I would’ve told you.”

“I know. I just couldn’t.”

“When the snows melt, is he going to come looking for you and the babe?” Jeyne asks as she pours water into a basin.

“No!” Arya grunts as another pain takes her. Only when it abates does she explain, “He doesn’t know. He wouldn’t – It’s not his.”

“What do you mean, it’s not his?”

“She already had the baby in her belly when she wed him,” Jayda helpfully explains with all the guilelessness of a child. “King Aegon doesn’t share her bed. He was bedding Erynne from the kitchens because Arya wouldn’t bed him. Everyone knew – “

“Enough, Jayda!” Arya exhales. “He won’t come. No one knew but her.”

Jeyne runs her fingers through her hair before taking a piece of leather and tying it back. “Well…women do this every day. We’ll figure it out.”

As Arya cries out again, another pain taking her, she wishes she had even a hint of Jeyne’s confidence.

* * *

She is on her hands and knees, screaming as if the hounds of all seven hells are after her, certain she will die from the pain when the babe finally slips from her body. Arya moans in relief, burying her face in the pillow in front of her, her body all but collapsing as the baby picks up where Arya left off, screeching with indignation at being ripped from the womb. There is a ringing in Arya’s ears, followed by a muffled nothingness like being under water, and all she wants to do is sleep for the next twenty years.

“Arya?” Willow ventures, pushing sweaty hair off of Arya’s forehead. “Are you all right?”

“I can’t believe my mother did that five times.”

Willow smiles, helping Arya to move onto her back, and it is then Arya hears the howling alongside her baby’s cries. She twists her head towards the window, and Willow moves to look, gasping. Before she even says a word, Arya knows what she is going to say.

“There are wolves outside.”

“Nymeria,” Arya sighs, letting her eyes drift shut with a smile.

Jayda is bouncing on the balls of her feet as Jeyne brings the baby to the bed, washed clean and wrapped in a length of linen. When Arya manages to open her eyes, she cannot help but smile at how excited Jayda is.

“It’s a girl!” she exclaims as Jeyne carefully sets the furious bundle on Arya’s bare breasts. “She has so much hair!”

Arya glances down and, sure enough, the baby’s head is capped with silky black hair, her face twisted up as she flails and cries. It has been a long time since she’s held a baby, and it takes Arya a moment to get her arms securely around her. She stares at her, this alien creature that’s now _hers_, and wonders what the hells she’s supposed to do with her.

“She’s probably hungry,” Jayda volunteers. “You should feed her.”

It takes both Arya and Willow to get her nipple into the baby’s mouth, and Arya winces as the baby immediately starts to draw on it forcefully. Thankfully it stops the screaming, and Arya isn’t certain which is worse: the screaming or the discomfort. As Jeyne and Willow start to clean up the room, Arya studies the baby, trying to figure out what comes next.

“Hi,” she says for a lack of anything else to say. “I’m your mum.”

The creature opens her eyes, revealing brilliant blue that steals Arya’s breath, and that is when the babe becomes her daughter.

* * *

“What do you mean, you didn’t pick a name?”

Arya shrugs, trying and failing once again at swaddling the baby the way Jeyne showed her. It seemed so easy when Jeyne did it, but every time she tries, the baby starts moving, refusing to stay still the way she did for Jeyne. If not for the fact that the baby is only a day old, Arya would think it’s deliberate.

“I didn’t think about it.”

“You had nine moons!”

“More like four,” she corrects, starting the swaddling process again.

“Which I also don’t understand. You notice _everything_. How did you fail to notice you had a child growing inside you?”

_Because I broke my own heart for reasons that seemed so important then, and I couldn’t bring myself to think about anything but moving forward._ “I must have caught a case of stupid from you.”

Willow glares with a smile on her face. “I missed you, you know.”

Finally securing the baby, Arya sighs. “I missed you too.”

“It wasn’t the same without you. It’s funny how that is, isn’t it? I lived a whole life before you and the Brotherhood came, but when you were gone, it just felt…wrong. It’ll feel wrong again when you go North.”

“You could come with us.”

“Not without Jeyne,” Willow says at once, “and she’ll never leave the inn or the children. This is our home now the same as Winterfell is yours.” 

“Except it’s not mine, not while the Boltons hold it.”

“Won’t your husband give it back to you?”

There is something teasing in the way Willow pronounces Aegon’s title, but it makes the sickly guilt in her stomach churn all the same. “I don’t know what he’ll do. Forgive me, I hope.”

Willow strokes a fingertip over one of the baby’s plump cheeks. “His mother loved him enough to send him away. I’m sure he’ll understand you loved this one the same.” She flicks her eyes up, a playful smile on her face. “Of course, _she_ might not ever forgive you if you don’t give her a name.”

“What would you call her?”

For once, Willow doesn’t respond immediately, mulling over the question with a seriousness that belies her usual manner. Arya waits, wondering what Willow is trying to divine in her daughter’s face that she herself could not find.

“Jenny,” Willow finally pronounces with all of her sister’s certainty. “I’d call her Jenny.”

Arya thinks of High Heart, of the gnarled old woman who told their fortunes, who insisted she had enough grief from Summerhall. She remembers Tom playing the song the “ghost” requested, remembers the whispered words of the woman who lamented the loss of her friend. In one of the books Ned brought her, Arya read the story of Jenny of Oldstones and Prince Duncan, and though she’s never much cared for songs, Arya finds herself singing them silently to herself as she weighs the name in her head.

She lifts the baby with careful hands, cradling her in the crook of her arm. After a moment, she decides, “Jenny it is.”

Willow beams. “Truly?”

“Truly.” Meeting her friend’s gaze, she asks, “Can I ask something of you?”

“Only if it isn’t going to get me thumped by Jeyne.”

“If something were to happen to me – “

Willow starts to shake her head. “No, Arya, don’t – “

“If something were to happen to me,” Arya repeats, raising her voice over Willow’s, “will you keep her safe until – until my sister is back in Winterfell? And if Aegon fails, if Winterfell is never ours again, will you make certain Jenny is safe and – and happy?”

“You know I will but…” Willow takes a deep breath, bracing herself for a question Arya isn’t certain she wants to hear. “What about Gendry? Don’t you want her to be with him?”

The tears come so fast now, her emotions still too unpredictable to control. Arya bats away a tear, swallowing fast to keep more at bay. “If he comes back, if he – if he wants her, then…” She wipes away another tear. “Either way, one of you is going to be stuck with Jayda too.”

Willow takes Jenny from her arms, kissing her forehead. “We’re all stuck with each other in one way or another.”

Mayhaps it’s the lack of sleep, but Arya thinks Willow almost sounds profound.

* * *

She hunts early in the mornings, sometimes with Nymeria by her side. Since Jenny’s birth, Nymeria has stayed close, even delighting and terrifying the children by venturing close enough to the inn that a few have hazarded petting her. Nymeria submits to it, her eyes always shifting towards Arya for reassurance, and Arya will twine her fingers in the direwolf’s fur. She trusts Nymeria implicitly, and if not for Jeyne’s adamant declaration that the only animals allowed in the inn are cooked in the kitchen, Arya would’ve allowed the wolf to sleep in the room with her, Jayda, and Jenny.

This morning, it is still bitter cold, her breath steaming in the early morning light, but it hasn’t snowed in weeks now. The snow still left is packed tight against the ground, easy to walk and travel on, and guests have started venturing down the kingsroad again, stopping at the inn and willing to pay good coin for warm meals. When the snows start to melt, Arya decided, she will head North again, but she has to be certain winter is truly gone before departing. It was difficult enough traveling with Jayda, and it will be even worse now that she’s gotten used to the inn. But with Jenny bundled against her chest, needing to be fed and changed often, still not sleeping through the night, unhappy unless she is in constant motion or being entertained by the faces Jayda pulls, Arya knows it will be downright hellish. 

_You never think_, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Sansa’s fills her head. _You can’t just do whatever you like and hope it works out for the best._

Except…she isn’t entirely certain she remembers Sansa’s voice, if she’d even recognize Sansa’s voice if her sister spoke directly to her. The realization makes her shot go wide, missing what should’ve been an easy catch.

It takes her far longer to bring down several rabbits and a turkey than she’d like, her breasts full and aching with milk, and she is certain Jenny is screaming the inn down by now, furious at being kept waiting for her meal. Arya hurries back to the inn, snow crunching beneath her boots, and she shivers in anticipation when she sees the smoke rising from the inn’s chimneys, ready for warmth.

The dining room is bustling with conversation and activity, but Arya pays little attention to the travelers, listening instead for Jenny’s cries while she shakes out her cloak, pivoting to hang it on one of the pegs near the door before delivering her haul to the kitchen. She collides with someone, sending her stumbling back, and the man catches her wrist to steady her.

“Whoa there – “

Arya is about to jerk away when she sees the man to whom the hand belongs, and something like hope flutters in her chest. “Anguy.”

“Arya?”

She nods, startled when Anguy embraces her. Feeling much like Nymeria when the orphans approach, Arya allows the hug, her eyes looking around the room, and she sees them all now: Tom, Lem, Ned Dayne, Harwin. There are a few she doesn’t recognize, a few whose names escape her, but she doesn’t see Beric or Thoros. And she doesn’t see Gendry.

“What the hells were you thinking, girl?” Harwin growls as he hugs her as well, and Arya submits to this hug a little easier even as her anxiety climbs. “If your lord father were here, gods rest him, he’d whip you bloody.”

Her father never struck her or Sansa, not like the boys, but Arya doesn’t say this. Instead she asks, “Is Gendry with you?”

Harwin’s eyes flick towards Anguy before reluctantly admitting, “In the forge.”

Arya thrusts her game bag at Harwin with an order to give that to Jeyne before she spins on her heel, rushing towards the forge without even bothering to get her cloak. When she wrenches open the forge door, a burst of heat hits her in the face, familiar broad shoulders stoking the coals, and Arya wants to weep with relief.

“I’ll fix your fucking sword when I get to it, Lem, and if you – “

“Gendry.”

He stills at once, the poker still in his hand. Without turning, he orders, “Get out.”

“_Gendry_.”

“We have nothing to say to each other. You shouldn’t even be here.”

“Well, I’m here! And I’m not going anywhere, not until – “

Arya flinches as Gendry whips around, throwing the poker against the opposite wall, rattling the tools hanging there. “Until what, you disappear again?! You lie to me again?! You fucking _marry_ another man again?! Until _what_?!”

Her moods have always mirrored his and Arya cannot stop herself from getting angry too. “I didn’t disappear! I didn’t lie! I told you everything in the letter – “

“The letter I couldn’t read?! I didn’t want a fucking letter! I wanted _you_!” Gendry catches himself, clenching his hands into fists so tight, Arya wonders if he could shape steel with them too. “You wanted him, so go back to him. Leave all of us alone.”

“I _didn’t_ want him. I said that in the letter! I explained why I was doing what I was doing. I never lied to you about anything!” She takes a step forward and he steps back, and the movement enrages her. “I came back here for _you_!”

“Then you’re stupid,” he states, and there is none of the playfulness in his voice that’s always existed whenever they’ve used the word to describe each other. It is flat and empty, and it makes Arya feel the same way she did when Ilyn Payne took her father’s head and she could do nothing to stop it.

Jenny is wailing like some monster from Old Nan’s stories when Arya makes her way back inside, and Jayda all but thrusts the baby at her, grateful to be free of what Willow often joked was the loudest baby in the Seven Kingdoms. Jenny’s face is wet with tears, genuinely upset, but as Arya settles her against her chest, she starts to calm some even as she roots around the front of her shirt.

“Thought Jeyne didn’t take in babies,” Ned Dayne says, wrinkling his nose at Jenny’s fussiness, and it makes something primitive roar in Arya’s chest.

“She’s not an orphan. She’s _mine_.” Brushing her lips against Jenny’s dark hair, she repeats, so soft that only Jenny would be able to hear, “She’s mine.”

* * *

“The blacksmith looks like Lord Renly,” Jayda states that evening as she and Arya lay in bed facing each other, Jenny asleep between them. 

“King Robert was his father. I think. I don’t know. He’s a bastard.”

“King Robert had lots of bastards. Edric Storm, he used to come to Storm’s End before the war.” One of Jayda’s fingers creeps out, touching a lock of Jenny’s hair. “He had hair like Jenny.”

“Lots of people have black hair. My brother Jon has black hair.”

“Aegon doesn’t.”

“Go to sleep, Jayda.”

The younger girl closes her eyes but still says, “I don’t remember King Robert, but the ladies at the castle said he was mean to them. Was the blacksmith mean to you?”

“No, I was the mean one.”

“Did you apologize?”

“He doesn’t want an apology. Now go to sleep or I’m putting you out in the hall.”

It is an empty threat, but Jayda stop talking, leaving Arya to her thoughts. She is almost asleep herself when someone pounds at her door. Jayda, able to sleep through a siege, doesn’t even twitch, but Jenny starts awake, her limbs flailing. Arya scoops her up at once, shushing her as she moves to the door, prepared to run through whoever is on the other side of the door with Needle.

The last person she expects to find there is Gendry, somehow looking both confused and furious.

“What the hells is wrong with you?” she hisses, bouncing Jenny in her arms. “It’s the middle of the bloody night!”

He looks at Jenny and then at her, mouth opening and closing a few times before he blurts out, “Is it mine?”

Remembering the sting of his words earlier, Arya squares her shoulders and retorts, “No, _she_ is _mine_. And don’t worry. You’re going to get your wish. As soon as I can, we’re leaving.”

“Arya – “

She slams the door in his face, barring it so he cannot follow.


	6. Chapter 6

The fever comes on her in the night, swift and sudden as an assassin. It saps her strength and makes her sweat through the bedclothes, and Jayda keeps bringing her tea that does nothing to sate the thirst in her throat or soothe the ache caused by her intense rounds of coughing.

“Get back into bed,” Jeyne orders when Arya drags herself downstairs, sapping nearly all of her strength to accomplish the feat. “You want to get all of us sick?”

“Jenny – “

“Willow’s got Jenny, and she’ll stay with Willow until you’re well. Last thing we need is the babe catching this too.” Jeyne presses her hands against Arya’s cheeks and forehead like she would the orphans, clucking her tongue. “Back upstairs.”

Ned offers to escort her back up the stairs, but Arya insists she can manage it herself. It takes her longer to get back to her room than it likely would’ve taken Jenny, and she collapses onto the mattress, sleeping for the next ten hours. And yet somehow when she wakes, her cough is worse, her fever burns hotter, and every joint in her body aches.

After three days abed, Arya feels no better. If anything, she feels worse. Each time she breathes, it feels as if a giant is squeezing her chest, and it reminds her of swimming in the wolfswood, of holding her breath for so long until her lungs burn, of bursting through the surface and swallowing air as deep as she could. Except she cannot seem to fill her lungs, not really, and it isn’t getting better.

“Maester Luwin,” she slurs when Jayda brings her a bowl of broth. “Get Maester Luwin.”

“I don’t know who that is.” Jayda presses trembling hands against Arya’s face, hissing at the heat there. “I’ll get help, all right?”

By the time Jayda returns with Jeyne, Thoros, and Beric, Arya cannot even bring herself to open her eyes, her strength entirely sapped from just a few words. She is vaguely aware of their conversation, of Jeyne wiping down her limbs, chest, and face with a wet cloth in hope of bringing down her temperature, but it feels as if the world is moving quicker than her mind can handle.

“Her lungs are wet,” Jeyne says, “and I’ve done everything I know how to do. She needs a maester, a real one.”

_Maester Luwin_, Arya tries to say again, wondering why no one is getting him, why isn’t her mother bringing him and feeding her bits of ice like she always does when Arya is ill.

“What about the babe?” Thoros asks, and Arya remembers then: her mother is dead, Maester Luwin is dead, and she’s a mother herself now.

But still Arya prays her mother would come and, like nearly all of her prayers, it goes unanswered.

* * *

Something thick and foul smelling is being slathered on her chest. Arya moans in disgust, trying to hit at whoever is doing it, but someone catches her wrist, shushing her with soft noises as the person keeps putting it on her. Just as they finish, something is held to her lips, some liquid that tastes worse than the salve smells sliding into her throat, and when she tries to cough and spit it out, a firm hand closes over her mouth until she has no choice but to swallow it all.

She starts to cough hard, her entire body jerking with the effort, and a gentle hand rubs circles into her back. The motion is so familiar, Arya relaxes into it, thinking mayhaps the gods haven’t forgotten her after all.

“Mother,” she whimpers, trying to get her blurry eyes to focus on Catelyn Stark, wanting so desperately to see her again.

But her eyes will not clear and her mother urges her to lie back down, to rest, to let the medicine do its work.

“I missed you so much,” Arya says, blindly reaching for her mother’s face, finding a soft cheek that is wet with tears.

“Sleep, sweetling,” she says, and Arya’s brow wrinkles because it doesn’t sound like her mother’s voice and she doesn’t understand why.

For the next several days she is woken by the terrible mixture on her chest and the medicine that makes her gag, and each time she fights it even as her breathing comes easier, as her fever lessens, as her mind starts to clear and she comes back to herself. Arya isn’t certain how many days she’s been abed or who is actually caring for her, but she knows from weak she is, she has been ill for far longer than she thought. It takes all of her energy to sit up in bed and swing her legs over the side, the room spinning a bit for her as she gathers herself on the edge of the bed. 

When the door to her room opens, Arya looks up and immediately wonders if she is still delirious from fever.

Aegon’s smile is soft as his eyes fall on her. “You’re awake. Haldon thought you’d be up and moving within the next few days. I should’ve known you’d do it sooner.”

“What are you – How – “

Aegon takes a seat in the chair beside her bed. “Your fever was so high, it’s amazing you came out of it at all. I’ve been here for over a week, and I’ve visited every day. You don’t remember?” When she shakes her head, he continues, “Jon is furious, of course. He was convinced you were going to give me your sickness and end the Targaryen line once and for all. But I could hardly stay away when I got word you were here, on your way to meet the Stranger.”

“Who told you?”

“Ned Dayne by way of his aunt Allyria. They needed a maester, and they could hardly go knocking on castle doors requesting one for Ned Stark’s daughter wed to the Targaryen king. Ned wrote his aunt, who contacted us. We set out that day.” His smile dampens. “Haldon said another day or two, you would’ve been lost.”

“Thank you…for coming. You didn’t have to.”

“You’re still my wife, Arya.”

“Aegon – “

“You _are_.” He leans forward, folding her hands between his own and squeezing them tight. “Jon had a list of ladies he thought were ‘acceptable’ wives for me, wives whose families would give us support and everything we’d need. Wedding you may win me the North, but there’s no guarantee of that. I wed you because I _like_ you, because I didn’t want some quiet stranger to tell me how wonderful I am. It broke my heart when I realized you were gone.”

“I had to go.”

“Because of Jenny?” When Arya tries to pull her hands away, Aegon holds them tighter. “You could have told me. I’m not Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch. Do you truly believe I’d do harm to your daughter?”

“I believe Jon Connington would throw her into Blackwater Bay before he’d ever let Robert Baratheon’s granddaughter live in his sight.”

The truth of the words must hit him hard because Aegon releases her, sinking back into the chair. Exhausted, Arya manages to get herself back into a prone position, her eyelids feeling heavy. She is almost asleep again when she hears Aegon murmur, almost to himself, “I’ll protect her.”

No one can protect anyone in this world, but Arya is too tired to tell him that.

* * *

It takes two more days of the disgusting tonic and the mixture on her chest before Haldon agrees that Arya can see Jenny, having decided she is no longer in danger of spreading her illness. Now recovered enough to possibly make good on her threat to throw herself down the stairs if denied any longer, Arya suspects Haldon would prefer she have more time to recover, but now that she is no longer in a constant state of exhaustion and delirious with fever, Arya is impatient.

“Do you truly believe we wouldn’t tell you if she was unwell?” Lemore asks as Arya finishes bathing, providing support as Arya climbs out of the tub.

“I believe Haldon would tie me to that bed if he didn’t know I’d stab him for it.”

Lemore smiles as she drapes a robe around her shoulders. “You almost died, sweetling. He was worried about you. We all were.” 

Arya squirms with discomfort, not wanting to consider how close she came to meeting Syrio’s God of Death. “Well, I didn’t die, so he can relax. The Targaryen dynasty might rise again after all.”

Lemore takes her face in her hands, and something in her gaze makes Arya feel the same twist of shame she felt when her mother did the same to her a lifetime ago. “We weren’t worried because of Aegon, Arya. We were worried because we care about you. And we certainly don’t want that little girl of yours to grow up without her mother.”

“Are you angry that I ran away?”

“No,” she answers at once, moving to fetch a comb. As she starts to carefully work it through Arya’s short hair, she continues, “A mother will do anything to keep her child safe. I know that better than anyone. Aegon wouldn’t be here today if Elia hadn’t…” Arya thinks she feels the older woman’s lips brush against the crown of her head before she continues combing out the knots she finds. “Aegon told me what you said about Jon, and I wish it weren’t true, but it is. The first time I laid eyes on your blacksmith, I thought I was looking at Robert Baratheon all over again, and so did Jon. He saw Robert in him, he sees Lyanna in you, and seeing you with Aegon only reminds him of ruin.”

“I never even knew my aunt. My father never talked about her. She was always just…another statue in the crypts, another sad story like Uncle Brandon or Grandfather Rickard.” A mirthless chuckle escapes her lips. “That’s all House Stark is now, isn’t it, sad stories? It’s why I agreed to marry him. I thought it would fix things.”

Lemore sighs, sitting beside her and taking Arya’s hand in her own. “There are a million things in this world I wish I could undo: people I’ve lost, choices I’ve made, events that destroyed lives. It took me a very long time to realize that I will never be able to put back what others broke. You and Aegon have the great misfortune of being children caught in a game that men have been playing long before you were born, and you’ve lost more than most people ever will. I hope you regain Winterfell. I hope the men who killed your family meet terrible ends. I hope you and your sister find each other again. But it won’t bring back your parents or your brothers, won’t make the hurt in you stop or the emptiness go away.”

“What are you saying then?”

“I’m saying don’t make the same mistakes I did. Don’t chase ghosts when you can start over.”

“What does _that_ mean?” she snaps, frustrated with riddles.

“I mean you have a beautiful daughter and a man who loves you both, a man who has spent every moment you’ve been in this bed driving everyone here mad at the idea you might pass and insisting upon caring for Jenny.”

“Aegon did that?”

“No, not Aegon.”

Before Arya can process this, Jayda and Willow enter the room, Jenny happily ensconced in Willow’s arms. Arya knows it’s nonsensical, that she’s only been abed for three weeks, but she swears Jenny’s grown, her hair is longer, that there are so many differences now. It’s so odd how she’d once thought all babies were alike and now notices the most minute changes in her daughter. 

She has harbored a fear that Jenny has forgotten her during her confinement, but when Jenny sees her, she begins to squirm and flail in Willow’s arms, releasing a noise that is somewhere between a shriek and a laugh. Arya laughs, feeling stronger than she has in days, and extends her arms. Jenny goes at once, happily slapping her chubby hands against Arya’s face and burying her face against her mother’s collarbone.

“She’s been an absolute terror without you,” Willow informs her. “It’s no wonder you got sick. I don’t think any of us have gotten a single night’s sleep because of this one. I’ll never understand how something that small is that loud.”

“I missed you too,” she says to Jenny, who is now attempting to suckle from Arya’s chin. 

“It was so scary when you were sick,” Jayda says, inching closer and closer to Arya on the bed until she is almost curled around her. “Maester Haldon wouldn’t let any of us come in, and I told him I didn’t care about getting sick, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Willow chuckles. “Just going to leave out the part where you tried to sneak in, got caught, and then kicked the maester, are you?”

Arya laughs. “You kicked Haldon?”

Jayda blushes but nods. “I yelled at him too.”

“No, you tried to _fight_ him, woke up half of the inn, and Gendry had to carry you out to the forge to stay with him and Jenny,” Willow corrects as Jayda sinks even deeper against Arya. “It was a sight, but even Lemore has to admit, it _was_ funny. Gendry scooped her up with one arm, tucked her up, had Jenny in the other arm, and carried them both out.”

“Why did Gendry have Jenny?”

Arya watches Lemore and Willow exchange a look, a silent conversation passing between them, but Jayda doesn’t seem to notice and answers, “Because he thought King Aegon would hurt her. They had a fight too.”

“Jayda, go down to the kitchens and ask Jeyne for some tea.”

The girl scowls. “But we just – “

“_Now_, Jayda,” Willow cuts in.

Jayda sighs, heavy and dramatic as she clamors out of bed. Mumbling about how she isn’t a child and already knows everything anyway, she leaves the room, and Arya immediately fixes her gaze on Willow, who very deliberately is not meeting it.

“What fight?”

“It wasn’t _really_ a fight. It was more like a – a duel.”

“Duel?!”

“Not really though,” Willow rushes on, fidgeting in her chair. “The Brotherhood stopped it before it could get out of hand. It was mostly shouting and – well – “

“A few punches,” Lemore chimes in, “but nothing permanent or serious. It was the sort of typical, childish behavior most men engage in at some point.”

“They were fighting about me?”

“In a way? Aegon – Um, King Aegon – he wanted to take Jenny if you…didn’t improve. He thought that way when he regains Winterfell, it could still go to her since…you know, he isn’t going to give it to your sister while she’s married to the Kingslayer. It was a nice thing he wanted to do, but Gendry…disagreed.”

“Disagreed enough to challenge him to a duel?”

“Oh, he didn’t do that. The king, he called for a duel. I think Gendry was just going to go get his hammer and end him like his father.” Noticing Lemore wince, Willow apologizes before continuing, “He said the only way Aegon was leaving this inn with his – well, with Jenny was if he was dead. He said some other things too, but they don’t need repeating. Like I said, the Brotherhood and his guard stopped it, and now things are…better.”

“Better how?”

“Better like…Gendry only trusts me, Jeyne, and Jayda with her, and he insists on keeping her with him if she’s not with one of us. He’s a real fast learner, changes swaddling clothes better than I do.” When Arya says nothing, Willow ventures, “Are you all right?”

“No,” she answers honestly, inhaling the sweet scent of Jenny’s hair as she starts to fall asleep against Arya’s chest, “but that’s mostly because of me, not you. Thank you.”

“For upsetting you?”

“Yes, stupid, thank you for that.” Ignoring Willow’s glare, she shakes her head. “Thank you for taking care of Jenny and Jayda and…everything. Thank you for everything.”

“No thanks necessary. We’re family.”

Stroking her fingers over Jenny’s silky hair, Arya realizes she’s right and wonders how that happened without her even noticing.

* * *

Despite Haldon insisting she still needed more rest, Arya insists on Jenny staying the night with her, and once it becomes clear she will not budge, Jayda declares she is moving back into their room as well. Arya is floating in that space between awake and asleep, dimly aware of Jenny’s steady breathing and Jayda’s squirming when she hears the door to the room open. She expects to hear Haldon’s voice, maybe Willow’s or Lemore’s, but instead it is Gendry’s deep voice that rumbles, “Dinner’s on.”

“I want to stay here,” Jayda whispers. 

“The maester says she’ll be fine. Eating won’t hurt none.”

“But what if Jenny wakes up and Arya is too sleepy to pick her up? I need to be here.” Arya feels Jayda scoot closer to them, her fingers ghosting across the hand Arya has resting on Jenny’s chest. “I can eat in the morning.”

She hears Gendry move across the creaking floorboards, sighing deep as he settles into the chair beside the bed. “Arya told me once only an idiot refuses food during a war.”

They’d been at Acorn Hall then, she recalls, but she can’t remember why they were fighting that day. Something stupid, she’s sure. But when it was time for supper, he’d tried to stubbornly stay outside, and she’d called him an idiot, especially after they’d spent so many nights falling asleep with bellies growling like savage animals. 

“My papa’s dead,” Jayda says, the words small and sad but also matter of fact. “I heard the men talking about Lord Stannis and the Blackwater and all of it. He’s not coming back. If Arya dies, I don’t got no one.”

“You got me,” Gendry states, firm and kind and making tears well behind Arya’s closed eyelids, “and you got Jenny. This place ain’t Winterfell, but you’ll have us. Arya would want that. And it doesn’t matter anyway because the maester says she’s going to be up and at it any day now. So go get your supper and I’ll stay here in case Jenny cries.”

Jayda slips from the bed, and Arya hears the door open and close again. She keeps her eyes closed, a bizarre sense of peace falling over her as she realizes Gendry is looking over her, but then she hears him start to move again. It is only when the mattress depresses that she realizes he is assuming Jayda’s empty spot, stretching his body out, his hand even covering hers on Jenny’s chest.

“Hi, love,” he whispers, his Flea Bottom accent sounding thicker than it’s sounded in years, and Arya almost laughs when Jenny releases a little snore in response. “You missed your mum, huh? I told you she’d get better. Never met anyone in this whole bloody world that fights harder than your mum, especially for her family. Not even the Stranger could beat her.” His thumb starts to stroke the back of Arya’s hand. “I’ll miss you both so damned much when you’re gone.”

Unable to stop herself, Arya asks, “Where are we going?”

When she opens her eyes, she sees the startled look on Gendry’s handsome face, but it is also the closest she’s been to him in over a year. Even with her heart breaking and strength sapped, she is grateful he is here and not the cold, closed off stranger she fought with in the forge.

“With Aegon.”

They lay there in silence, looking at each other, before Arya finally murmurs, “I’m sorry. I never should have…I wanted to go home. I wanted to save Sansa and her girls. I thought I could be like my parents and do what I had to do to save our family.”

“Arya – “

“But you’re my family, and I hurt you. I hurt _me_. I hurt everyone.” She swallows hard. “I don’t want to hurt Jenny too.”

“Arya – “

“We wasted so much time. I don’t want to waste any more.”

Gendry squeezes her hand, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he might just smile, and Arya lets her eyes drift close again, content with the knowledge that Gendry doesn’t hate her after all.

* * *

She has been able to get out of bed and actually make it downstairs without assistance for three days when Aegon comes to her, concern on his face, and says they need to talk in private right away.

Arya is acutely aware of everyone’s eyes on her as she transfers Jenny into Jayda’s arms and follows Aegon outside, the bite of cold air refreshing after so many days spent indoors. They are only a handful of steps from the inn when he says, “You have to leave, today as possible.”

“What? Why – “

“Joffrey’s men know we’re here,” he cuts in, “and Connington is getting our forces to the Riverlands, but the Lannister men will get here first. When they get here, they’re going to kill everyone for sheltering us and committing treason.”

Arya’s stomach begins to churn with the sort of panic she hasn’t felt in years, not since those first terrible months on the road after her father’s murder. “Jeyne and Willow – the orphans – they didn’t do anything – “

Aegon takes hold of her shoulders. “I know. Your brotherhood, I’m going to have them take you all somewhere safe, give them the gold they’ll need to get supplies on the way.”

“Where is safe?”

“Well, that’s the good news.” Aegon reaches into his pocket and hands her a small piece of parchment. “I received this with the message about Joffrey.”

Arya unrolls the paper with clumsy fingers, tears instantly filling her eyes as she reads the five most beautiful words she’s ever seen: **Jon Snow has retaken Winterfell.**

“I need a favor, Arya. I need you to get your brother to support my claim. I need you to convince him to send his armies south. And I need you to pretend to be my wife until the Lannisters are defeated.”

She nods because there is no other option. Aegon put himself at risk by bringing Haldon to heal her. She endangered everyone by fleeing Storm’s End and coming here. The least she can do is get the people she cares about to safety at Winterfell and help Aegon destroy the Lannisters. And it’s certainly easier to pretend to be his wife thousands of leagues apart than it is sharing a castle.

When they announce to the inn what is coming, Arya sees the genuine fear in Willow’s face as well as the devastated resignation in Jeyne’s. However, Jeyne quickly recovers, ordering the orphans to put on their warmest clothes and be ready as quick as possible. She whispers something to Willow, who nods and hurries upstairs while Jeyne disappears into the kitchens. Thoros and Beric are organizing the Brotherhood, ordering them to saddle every available horse and have their weapons ready, and that is when Arya sees how pale Jayda’s face has gone.

“We’re going to be fine,” Arya lies, taking Jenny out of her arms. “Go upstairs and pack a bag like you did when we left Storm’s End. You’ll ride with me and Jenny again.”

“But what if – “

“Pack Jenny’s things too and some for me. We’ll be at Winterfell before you know it.”

Arya watches as she hurries up the stairs before looking around the room. Finding Gendry entering from the forge, hammer in hand, they lock eyes, and Arya wants to go to him, to tell him what’s going on, to apologize for all of this, to celebrate that Jon somehow managed to leave the Wall and take back their home.

Instead she asks Lemore to take Jenny while goes outside to help the men saddle the horses.

* * *

“Lemore is going with you,” Aegon says as they’re saddling up, the orphans being organized by Jeyne into a cart the Brotherhood stole years earlier during one of their raids. The dozen of them don’t fit well, but with Jayda and a few of the older ones riding, at least they fit. Jenny is attached to Arya’s front in a sling, deeply unhappy about it, but still recovering or not, Arya trusts her riding ability over the steadiness of someone else’s hands. 

“Why – “

“I want her safe and away from battle,” Aegon interrupts, running a hand over Jenny’s fussing head as if she is a puppy. “You know what happens when these men come upon ladies. I’ll not have that happen to Lemore. And she can help with the baby.”

“I don’t mind her coming. I’m just surprised she agreed to leave you.”

His smile is crooked and sad. “I didn’t give her much of a choice. Besides, once I told her it would make it seem as if our marriage is more legitimate, she agreed.”

Nervousness in her stomach for him, Arya says, “Be careful. I’ll be upset if you die.”

Aegon laughs, catching her off-guard by pulling her into a hug. “Aye, I will be as well. Ride fast, Arya Stark, and send me an army.”

“Go kill Joffrey already.”

Arya isn’t certain if she’ll ever see her husband again. She isn’t certain if they’ll all make it safely to Winterfell. But she _is_ certain as she mounts her horse, Jayda in front of her and Jenny against her heart, that for the first time in years, she is going home.


	7. Chapter 7

The Lannister men find them when they are still a few days from the Neck. 

Arya doesn’t think she’s slept solidly since before her father died and having a child has only made that worse. In the small tent she shares with Jenny, Jayda, Lemore, Willow, and whoever else decides to climb in with them on any given night, Arya is lucky if she sleeps a handful of hours on her best night. When she hears the Brotherhood start rousing the other tents, Arya is already on her feet, her boots on, sword at her hip, quiver of arrows slung across her back. 

Gendry is the one who pulls open the flap of her tent, a distinct look of panic on his handsome face, and when he sees Arya ready for battle, he starts to shake his head even as the others start to wake and quickly gather themselves.

“You’re not fighting!” he hisses at her as she shoves her bedroll into a bag, Jenny screeching with indignation at being woken before she was ready, Lemore attempting to shush her as Willow and Jayda help the orphans get their boots on and hurry towards the wagons. 

“You need the men!”

“You aren’t a bloody man!” When Arya attempts to pass him, Gendry catches her by her upper arm, using his considerable strength to keep her in place. “Jenny needs you more than we need your sword!”

Gesturing to the hammer in the hand not holding her, she retorts, “You’re going to fight. You think she doesn’t need you?”

Gendry looks at her, truly looks at her for the first time in weeks, and Arya hates that her stomach is churning with something other than anticipation for a fight. He releases her arm, swallows hard, and then surprises her to her core by slipping his hand around the back of her head and pressing his mouth hard against hers. 

The kiss is brief, Gendry pulling back as quick as he leaned in, and he grits out, “You stay close to me, understand?”

“You’re not the boss of me,” she finds herself saying, an echo of an argument they had a million times when they were both still children, and Gendry almost smiles before being swallowed up in the chaos of getting everyone on the road. 

“I want to stay with you,” Jayda protests as Arya helps Lemore into her saddle, kissing the top of Jenny’s head before passing the crying baby to the older woman.

“Jayda – “

“I can be your squire!” Trying desperately to plant her feet in the dirt as Arya pushes her towards one of the wagons with the orphans, she insists, “I won’t get in the way, Arya, I promise!”

Arya opens her mouth to shout, impatience burning through her, until she sees the genuine fear in Jayda’s eyes. She recognizes that feeling, remembers feeling it that day when the Kingsguard came for her and Syrio let her escape; it is the desperation of knowing you may never see a person you love again.

Taking a steadying breath, Arya grasps Jayda by the shoulders and meets her gaze. “I need you to go with them. Jenny needs you. Lemore and Willow will never get her to sleep without you, and no one can make her smile like you do.” Seeing the indecision on Jayda’s face, Arya squeezes her shoulders. “I’ll catch up to you. I swear it.”

“On your honor as a Stark?”

“On my honor as a Stark.” She gives her a little push. “Now go.”

The men assigned to escort Jeyne, Willow, and the children take off, Ned Dayne riding ahead to lead the way, the other riders encircling the group in the event of an attack from any direction. When Beric sees her making a little nest for herself in the underbrush where she will be able to fire off arrows unseen, he scowls but says nothing. As she takes several deep breaths, calming herself with Syrio’s words, Arya wonders if tonight is when she will meet the God of Death.

They leave a fire burning, the soft illuminating the clearing just enough to make the collection of Lannister men riding through visible. Arya releases her first arrow at the same time as Anguy, and while hers skewers the lead rider’s throat, Anguy’s finds the eye of another rider. Both men fall from their horses, and Arya’s sees the sudden flare of Beric’s flaming sword only a moment before their camp descends into bloody chaos.

It has been years since she’s been surrounded by death. The grunts and cries of the men, the crash of their swords, the stench of their bodies, it unlocks a trove of memories Arya does her best to keep at bay most days, and it makes her fire her arrows faster, makes her burn as brightly as Beric’s sword. These men are the reason her parents are dead. These men are why she is alone in the world without her pack. These men are the reason Sansa has been raped and forced to bear her captor’s children.

And she will kill them all.

She charges out of her nest when she sees Harwin struggling with a Lannister man with golden hair. Needle’s point slips between the gaps in the man’s armor with no problem, puncturing his lung; he releases a sickening hiss as he spins to try to defend himself, but Arya swings her fist, catching him across his jaw as she withdraws her sword from his body. She dances away from another man’s wild swing, the broadsword too heavy to reverse course as quickly as she is. 

_A thin sword is always better_, Syrio told her once after she complained about how she would never inherit Ice like Robb would. _A true fighter must be able to move quickly, to dance away from their enemies. You cannot do that with a sword as large as a man._

The sound of Gendry’s hammer connecting with the breastplate of one of the men echoes in the forest, loud as thunder. There are three men surrounding him, trying to box him in, and Arya is rushing across the clearing. The Lannister men outnumber them easily, everyone engaged with their own opponent, and Arya knows no one is going to be able to help Gendry.

A strong arm yokes her around her neck, a headlock that steals her breath and lifts her off of her feet. Arya flails, trying to drive Needle into any body part she can, but the angle is too awkward. The world starts to turn dark, spots of color appearing in her line of vision, and Arya closes her eyes as Needle slips from her fingers.

She tastes iron, hot and strong in her mouth. There is meat between her teeth. Men are screaming. And as Arya comes back to herself, dropped to the ground and desperately sucking in oxygen, she understands the screaming.

Nymeria looks like a creature out of Old Nan’s stories, her coat absolutely filthy with mud and blood, her massive jaws snapping bones with jerks of her head. Her pack is vicious as they tear into the Lannister men, but alongside Arya’s direwolf, they look like little more than pups. As Arya gets to her feet, Needle back in her hand, she meets Nymeria’s gaze, and somehow she _knows_ the iron she tasted was the blood of the soldier who advanced on Gendry, that the meat in her teeth had been that man’s throat.

Arya rounds to find a Lannister man whose helmet has come off to reveal a boy who doesn’t look old enough to grow whiskers yet. Whatever he sees on Arya’s face makes him drop his sword, holding up his hands as he cries, “I yield!” and part of her wants to run him through anyway, wants to bathe in his blood.

Instead she takes his sword and binds his hands with a length of leather while the rest of the Brotherhood and the wolves deal with the rest of the men. She is unconcerned with her prisoner attempting to escape; Nymeria now stands at her side, a low growl continuously rumbling from deep in her chest, and the boy looks as if he is going to soil himself any moment.

It is only as she is picking up the boy’s sword again that she realizes there is no blood on it, that he hadn’t struck a single one of her friends. It is also when she realizes there is something familiar about the sword; it is not just that it is Valyrian steel but rather she recognizes the play of color in the blade, had admired it a thousand times when it was far larger.

“This was my father’s sword,” she says, testing the words, hoping she is wrong but somehow knowing she isn’t. 

The boy cringes in what looks like shame. “Grandfather had it melted down for Joff’s wedding, gave us both swords made from it.”

It is then Arya realizes who is her prisoner, and she wishes it made her feel powerful, made her feel _angrier_, but instead she just thinks of a chubby little boy who chased after Bran and begged to play knights with them, a little boy who cried with them when Bran fell and who cried again when his mother wouldn’t let him bring a kitten he had found back to King’s Landing.

“Tommen.”

His lips tremble as if he is trying to smile. “Hello, Arya.”

* * *

Tommen is terrified of Beric. The moment he sets his eyes on the Lightning Lord, he looks at Arya as if hoping she will protect him, and Arya wonders how such a soft boy came from Cersei and the Kingslayer. She keeps her hands wrapped tight around the pommel of the bastardized version of her house’s ancestral blade, and she wonders if Gendry will be able to reforge Ice if Aegon will bring her the blade Joffrey carries. The idea of Joffrey having her father’s sword…It rankles her even more than the Freys in Riverrun.

“Lord Tywin would give us all the gold under Casterly Rock for him,” Tom is saying, trying to make his case for ransoming Tommen back to the Iron Throne. “We’d be mad not to sell him back to them.”

“A Lannister hostage is worth more than any gold,” Thoros reasons as he finishes patching Anguy’s arm where it was sliced by a blade. 

“He’s a fucking Lannister. Let’s kill him and be done with it,” one of the Dornishmen whose name Arya’s forgotten spits.

“We’re not killing him,” Arya snaps. “He yielded! He’s no bloody threat to us.”

“What, you think just because you played in the nursery together, he won’t slit your throat and your baby’s too?”

“You think I won’t crack your head if you keep talking to her like that?” Gendry retorts.

Tommen’s eyes almost grow as wide at the sight of Gendry as they did at Beric. He looks to Arya, genuine anxiety and fear in his green eyes, before offering, “Joffrey won’t pay any ransom for me. He sent me out here to get rid of me. He knew – “ His voice cracks but Tommen presses on, “He knew I wouldn’t come back.”

“Brienne said you were in Casterly Rock with Sansa. Why would he send you?”

“Because he thinks everyone is plotting for his throne. It’s why Uncle Jaime sent me to there with Sansa in the first place. He was afraid Joff would have me killed. But then he ordered some of the garrison to come find you and…If I refused, he would’ve killed me anyway.”

“Is Sansa all right?”

Tommen nods, finally managing a smile. “She’s happy to be away from the Keep. The girls are walking and talking now. They’re –“ Tommen looks at the Brotherhood and winces. “Can we speak alone, Arya? You know I’m no threat to you.”

“No,” Gendry answers, earning a glare from the woman in question.

“You’re not the Targaryen,” he says, and Arya can hear the same false courage he used to inject his words with when Bran was besting him with wooden swords. “You look like my uncle Renly did, so you’re one of my father’s bastards.”

“Robert Baratheon wasn’t your father,” Harwin snorts.

“He was the only one I had, blood or not.” He looks at Gendry with something like hope in his eyes. “That makes us brothers of a sort then, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe we should gag him,” Anguy suggests.

As the Brotherhood continues to talk amongst themselves, Arya squats down beside Tommen, meeting his gaze. Taking hold of his chin, she studies him. He doesn’t look quite so young now that he isn’t staring down death; Arya supposes he would even be considered handsome in the same way the Kingslayer was. Bran would be this age if Theon Greyjoy hadn’t killed him, Arya thinks, her heart aching in that all-too-familiar way for her brother. 

“If you lie to me, I’ll kill you, understand?” When Tommen nods, she asks, “Is Sansa safe?”

“So long as Joffrey is king, none of us are safe.”

She uses the knife in her belt to free Tommen’s hands, ignoring the shouts of protest from the Brotherhood. The Dornishman attempts to step towards her, but Nymeria is there, her teeth bared and stilling him in his spot. Tommen rolls his wrists to get the blood circulating again, but he doesn’t attempt to run, instead just watching Arya.

“Go back to my sister,” she says, staying crouched in front of him, “and tell her I’m alive and safe and going back to Jon. Can you do that?”

He nods.

“Tell her I never forgot about her, not for one day, and I’m going to make sure she and her girls get to come home to us. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for our family. Can you tell her all of that?”

He nods again. She is starting to rise when he blurts out, “I want a place in the North.”

Arya freezes. “What?”

Slowly getting to his feet, Tommen repeats, “I want a place in the North. You can do that, right? You’ll be queen when this is all over, and you can have your husband spare me, let me stay in the North.”

“Why would you want to go to the North?”

“Because I’m in love with your sister.” He turns a shade of crimson to rival his Lannister armor, but he doesn’t look away. “I’ll carry your message back to her no matter what, but I want to go with her.”

Arya is quiet for a moment, weighing his words, before conceding, “If that’s what Sansa wants.”

“Lady Arya, “ Beric begins but she shakes her head.

“Take your horse back to Casterly Rock. Give Sansa my message. And I want you to write your family in King’s Landing and tell them about what happened here. Tell them the wolves have come again.” Squeezing the pommel of Ice’s remains so tight it makes her hand ache, she adds, “And I’m keeping this.”

It isn’t until Tommen is riding away into the dark that Anguy groans, “You just sent away a fortune.”

Arya glares at the archer. “My brother will pay you when we reach Winterfell.”

“Or he could go find more men to come kill you – “

“Then let him kill me!” Arya explodes, acutely aware of Nymeria’s fur now standing on edge as she advances towards Anguy. “Get on your horse, find the others, and forget about me! Go back to robbing lords and pretending like none of this is any of your concern because you don’t have a fucking banner!”

“Arya.” 

Gendry’s voice is calm and low when he says her name, but Arya barely hears it, whirling on Thoros and Beric, on Harwin and Tom and Lem and even the damned Dornishman whose name she can’t remember. “None of you did a gods damned thing to help me! All I ever was to you was a _thing_ to be ransomed, and if Jeyne hadn’t let me stay at the inn, you wouldn’t have bloody cared if I lived or died!”

“That’s not true,” Harwin lamely attempts.

“It _is_! The only reason you’re helping me now is because I sold _myself_ to Aegon, and he gave you the fucking coin to get us to safety! If the Lannisters never knew about the Crossroads, you wouldn’t be taking me North. So don’t pretend you give a fuck about whether or not Tommen betrays me because you betrayed me first!” As the men stand there chagrined, Arya throws her free arm in Nymeria’s direction. “And if it wasn’t for _my_ wolf and _her_ pack, you lot would be dead anyway, so mayhaps for once you should actually _listen_ to me rather than standing around deciding what should be done with me!”

They all stand there, Arya short of breath from her rant, the men all looking properly chastened before Beric finally says, “We should get back to the others. There’s still a long way to go.”

The horses are scared of the wolves, all of whom remain at Nymeria’s back. When it becomes clear her direwolf is not going anywhere, Arya ruffles her ears and silently thanks her for coming before climbing up into the saddle of a dead Lannister man’s horse. Nymeria falls into step beside her, and Arya finds some jerky in the saddlebag, a piece of which she drops down to the wolf, who catches it easily.

“That wolf is even scarier than you are,” Gendry says as his horse falls into step beside hers. He is still terrible at sitting a horse, clutching the reins almost as tight as Jayda does, and she thinks he would fall from the saddle if he attempted to do anything more than trot, but it is somewhat endearing to see him trying to act as if he is not uncomfortable.

“We’re part of each other.”

“Is she part of Jenny?”

Arya shrugs, suddenly feeling exhausted as the adrenaline begins to leave her body. “I don’t know yet. She’s just a baby.”

“I hope she is.” 

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Why? You hate me.”

Gendry snorts. “Do you know how much easier my life would be if I hated you?”

They ride in silence until the sun starts to lighten with the dawn. As they finally come upon the rest of their party, Ned Dayne riding to meet them, Arya looks at Gendry and says, “I came back for you.”

Even though he looks as tired as she feels, he smirks. “You married someone else.”

“Not really.” At his incredulous look, she explains, “He never fucked me. Not even on our wedding night. Ask anyone. The whole fucking castle knew.”

The shock on Gendry’s face is quickly forgotten as Jayda’s voice rings out, “Arya!” and she comes charging towards them, completely unbothered by Nymeria and her bloody snout. Arya has only just slid down from the saddle before she is on her ass, Jayda wrapped around her. It takes Arya a moment to realize the younger girl is crying against her chest, her fingers twisting in the back of Arya’s cloak.

Once, when she hadn’t been more than five, she’d been watching Jon and Robb spar in the yard with Ser Rodrik when Jon tripped backwards, smacking his head hard against the ground and knocking himself unconscious. He couldn’t have been knocked out for more than a minute, not even enough time for Robb to properly fetch Maester Luwin, but it felt like an eternity for Arya. When he’d opened his eyes, wincing from the pain in his head, Arya flew at him much the way Jayda had, sobbing with relief that her brother was safe.

Thinking of Jon’s hands stroking her hair and the soft voice he used then, Arya whispers the words he said to calm her, “It’s all right, sweetling. I’m right here.”

It still takes Jayda another ten minutes to calm herself enough to let Arya up, and for the first time in her life, Arya isn’t impatient. She thinks of Jon, of how much she wants to see him again, how truly _happy_ she will be to hold him again, and she lets Jayda cry.

No one understands better than Arya how terrifying it is to watch the people you love go away.

* * *

They have been on the kingsroad through the Neck for two days before Arya realizes they are being watched.

Everyone except for Arya is unsettled by the Neck. Even Harwin, a Northman through and through, does not like it here, repeatedly warning the orphans not to venture off without an adult because of the lizard-lions and snakes hiding in the bogs. Nymeria’s pack would not follow them, only Nymeria accompanying them into the strange terrain, and even Lemore, usually able to maintain a look of implacability, is on edge.

“It’s just a place,” Arya assures her when they stop to make camp that evening, making Jenny giggle as she tickles her chubby cheeks with a bit of moss she’d plucked from a log. “The last time I was here, it was still summer. I found all kinds of new flowers, and I saw my first lizard-lion.”

“Lizard-lions eat men.”

“So do direwolves.” Arya nods towards Nymeria, currently asleep, her massive head resting on her paws as Jayda leans against her side as if she is a pillow. “A truly vicious creature.”

“I met a crannogman once. I don’t think he was any bigger than you.” Lemore stretches, her back giving a crack loud enough to make Arya wince. “He carried the most peculiar spear.”

“My father always said the crannogmen don’t get the respect they deserve, that they were the closest to the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest. I hope we come across a godswood. I need a proper one.”

“You never struck me as one for prayer.”

She isn’t, not really. Unlike her parents with their absolute faith in their different gods, Arya isn’t certain how much she believes in either set of deities. But tradition is tradition, and she knows her father would want her to bring Jenny to a heart tree for a blessing from the gods.

Arya is about to make a sarcastic comment when she notices the green eyes behind Lemore, camouflaged by the leaves and moss of the forest. Her face gives away nothing as she requests Lemore to take Jenny, and the older woman thinks nothing of it, happily accepting the baby. Arya gets to her feet, stepping over Nymeria and Jayda, and she is as aware of the green eyes on her as she is the blade at her hip.

Gendry is helping some of the men erect a tent when Arya sidles up to him and murmurs, “Someone is spying on us.”

He instantly goes to turn his head, but she digs her elbow into his side and he manages to catch himself. “Where?”

“Behind Lemore and Jenny, in the trees.”

Gendry’s fists flex. “Why would you leave Jenny over there if someone is watching us?”

“Because I think it’s a crannogman, and I think they’re trying to figure out if we’re dangerous.”

“So go over, tell ‘em you’re Arya Stark, and make sure they don’t eat us.”

Arya rolls her eyes. “They aren’t fucking cannibals. Where do you think we are, Skagos?”

Gendry’s eyes almost bulge from his head. “Wait, there _is_ a place where people eat each other?”

“I’m going to go talk to them. Make sure the men don’t do something stupid.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I can’t come up with every part of every plan!” Gripping the rope and helping him knot it to its stake, she adds, “I’m going to go make peace.”

“Oh yeah? You know what peace is, right?”

“I want to stab you sometimes.”

Gendry’s smile is genuine, and she hates how it makes her stomach flip. “Don’t know why I doubted you.”

Arya kicks him in the ankle, earning both a laugh and a hiss of pain, before walking into the trees. She doesn’t head directly for the set of eyes, trying to make it look as if she has a purpose, and she has just bent down to pick up a piece of firewood when she hears branches crack behind her. Arya spins, Needle drawn from her belt, only to find herself staring at a brunette woman not much older than herself, a blade of her own drawn as well.

“How long have you been following us?”

“Since you entered our territory.”

“You’re a good tracker.”

“My father taught me well.” The girl nods towards Needle. “If you put that away, I’ll put mine away.”

Arya nods, sheathing the blade, and the girl is as good as her word, replacing her blade on her belt. She is certainly older than Arya, maybe closer to Gendry’s age, but she is small, hardly larger than Arya, and her hair is knotted at the back of her head. There is a net at her waist along with the odd spear Lemore mentioned, and Arya wonders how you use such a thing.

“We don’t mean any harm – “

“I know. Your brother assured me of that when he sent me to guide you.”

“Jon sent you?”

The girl shakes her head. “No, I’ve never met Jon Snow.”

“Then what – “

Arya loses all of her words as a wolf appears behind the girl, walking towards them with no hesitation. For a moment Arya thinks it is Nymeria except this wolf is smaller than hers, its fur is more silver than grey, its eyes more yellow than gold. It brushes past the girl, dragging the side of its body against hers, and the girl runs her fingers over the arch of its back as it approaches Arya.

She’d never known his name. They all teased Bran how particular he was being about his direwolf’s name, how he’d never train it properly without giving it a name, but he’d been adamant, her little brother. And now, as Arya stares into the eyes of his wolf, she swears she can _see_ Bran inside him, some piece left behind after Theon ended his life.

“Summer sensed his sister was close. He was driving us all mad in the castle.”

“Summer,” Arya repeats, brushing her hands over his broad head. She looks at the girl, standing patiently there, and asks, “Who are you?”

“Meera of House Reed.”

“You knew my brother Bran?”

Meera shakes her head. “No, your grace.”

Bristling at the title, Arya snaps, “You have his direwolf, so you must have known him!”

“You misunderstand. I knew Bran at Winterfell, true, but I know him now as well.” Meera smiles. “Who do you think sent me to find you?”


	8. Chapter 8

His grin is just as she remembered it, so open and guileless that it makes her grin too, and she’s grateful Jenny is currently cradled in Lemore’s arms because when he exclaims, “Hodor!” at the sight of her, Arya charges him, leaping into his arms as easily as she had as a child, throwing her arms around his impossibly broad shoulders and hanging on for dear life, afraid he will disappear the way her father, her mother, and Robb do in her dreams.

Hodor bears her weight easily, repeating his name as if they are engaging in conversation, and Arya cannot remember when something sounded so wonderful to her ears. He even _smells_ like home, and Arya thinks the gods may not be as cruel as she thought if they’ve allowed someone as good as Hodor to survive.

She catches sight of Bran over Hodor’s shoulder, sitting tall in a wheeled chair, and even though she hasn’t seen her little brother in what feels like a dozen lifetimes, she still knows him at once. His auburn hair is long like Father’s used to be, held back on the sides, and there is even a slight ruddy shadow on his jaw. If he could stand, Arya knows he’d tower over her, and she isn’t certain why it surprises her that Bran is a man-grown now; she’s a _mother_ after all. But as she slips from Hodor’s arms to reach her brother, she remembers that she mourned him for years, that he’d been eight years old in her mind for so long that the idea he would ever be older hadn’t seemed possible.

Bran smiles as she stands in front of him, more sedate than Hodor, and there is something about his expression that reminds her so much of their mother. “You’re late.”

“Your raven got lost,” she retorts, embracing him so tight, he grunts. “I thought you were dead, you know.”

“I know, but we all had to walk our own paths to get here.”

“What does that mean?”

Bran tilts his head and then smiles. “He’s been impatient for you to get here.”

“Who – “

If it wasn’t for the black direwolf at his side, Arya wouldn’t have had any idea who the stranger rushing her was. She gasps as Rickon’s arms wrap around her, lifting her straight off of her feet; he is tall like Bran but broader the way Robb had been, and even though she knows he is only on the cusp of two-and-ten, he looks older. His hair is even shorter than Arya’s own, but she can make out the same kind of curl to it both Jon and Robb had, and she is grateful his eyes are the same shade of grey as her own because otherwise he would look too much like Robb.

“What took you so long?” Rickon demands, his voice cracking in that way that tells her he isn’t _too_ far from boyhood after all, and there is something about the indignation in his words that brings her back to Winterfell and laughing as he’d stamp his foot in frustration at being left behind.

“I came as fast as I could,” she says, and it feels like the truth.

* * *

Howland Reed is the first man Arya’s ever met who stands as tall as she does. He is quiet and odd, though kind enough, and he greets all of them with warmth, promising rooms, food, and even a permanent place at Greywater Watch if anyone does not want to continue on to Winterfell. In addition to Meera, he has a son called Jojen who has an equally odd manner but Bran insists is a true friend, and Arya does not like the way the older man looks at Lemore for a long, quiet stretch of time before welcoming her to the North.

“We’ve never hosted a queen,” Lord Reed says, making Arya squirm in discomfort, “but I had our finest rooms prepared for you once Bran told us of your arrival.”

There are so many things Arya wants to say – how she isn’t really a queen, how she doesn’t understand how Bran could possibly have known she was coming, how she is so tired of having to pretend she knows what she is doing when she has no clue at all – but instead she manages the closest thing to a polite smile as she can and thanks him for his hospitality. For the orphans, who have spent the past few weeks terrified, freezing, and half-starved, everything being offered to them by House Reed is overwhelming; Arya watches as all of them, even Jayda, eat themselves to the edge of sickness, and she feels an overwhelming sense of guilt that she has dragged innocent people into her fight with the Lannisters.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a meal I didn’t prepare,” Jeyne says as she uses a roll to sop up what remains of her stew. “You highborns might have the right idea of things.”

“I can make a rabbit,” Rickon volunteers, sitting close enough to Arya that the side of his body is pressed tight against hers. “Osha taught me when we left Winterfell. Shaggy helped catch them.”

“Is Winterfell as big as Storm’s End?” Jayda asks, looking decidedly put out at having her place beside Arya usurped. The only reason Arya suspects Jayda hasn’t challenged Rickon to a duel is Jenny’s insistence on remaining in Jayda’s arms for the meal.

Before Arya can answer, Rickon says, “I don’t really remember it much, but Bran says it was bigger than here.”

Arya’s stomach churns. “You don’t remember Winterfell?”

He shrugs. “Bits of it, like the godswood and my room. I remember Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik. Meera and Jojen were there when Theon came back with the Ironborn. I remember hiding in the crypts and then…Then we had to leave. Bran and Osha tell me about it though.”

“So do you…do you remember what it was like before? With Mother and Father?”

Rickon seems unconcerned as he shakes his head. “I remember Robb. You used to let me play knights with you and Bran. Sansa…she used to sing, I think? It was a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Arya says, looking at Jenny as she gleefully grabs a handful of mashed potatoes from Jayda’s plate. 

She’d always thought it was torture, remembering how wonderful things had been before death came for her family, how happy they’d been.

She hadn’t realized that the alternative was even worse.

* * *

“The finest rooms” as Lord Reed promised ends up overcrowded, and Arya is neither surprised nor upset about it. Arya has grown so used to sharing a room with Jayda and Jenny, she thinks nothing of it, and there is more than enough space for Lemore as well. She offers one of the rooms to Jeyne and Willow, and while it is obvious Willow wants to accept, Jeyne insists on staying with the orphans to make sure they do not cause trouble and glares at her little sister until she says the same. Rickon lingers so long in the sitting room that Arya finally asks if he’d like to stay as well, and soon he is snoring while stretched out on a lounge, Shaggydog and Nymeria twined together in front of the fire. Arya knows she should be the happiest she has been in years, and in some ways, she is but in others…

Just as she is not surprised her rooms are overcrowded, she isn’t entirely shocked to find Gendry seated outside them, his back pressed against the stone. He starts when she opens the door, settling some when he sees it is just her, and then he looks uncertain as she takes a seat beside him on the cool stone. They sit in silence for several long minutes before she says, “You could have knocked. I would’ve let you in.”

“You’re the queen, remember? Can’t be inviting strange men into your rooms.”

“Right, looks less suspicious when they just sit outside my room like an inept assassin.” Ignoring his glare, she asks, “Didn’t Lord Reed give you lot some rooms?”

He nods. “Thanked us for our service to the North too. Tom said it’s like we’re heroes, returning you to the North like we have.”

Arya stopped believing in heroes a long time ago, but she doesn’t say that. Instead she asks, “Why did you agree to leave Harrenhal with me? Why did you trust me when I was just a kid?”

Gendry smirks. “Because I’m stupid.”

“No, I mean it. Why?”

“Because you were my friend. Because you were the only person in the world who gave a damn if I lived or died. Because I didn’t – “ He swallows hard, as if the rest of his words taste bad on his tongue, but still he finishes, “Because I didn’t want to be left behind again.”

“How old were you when your mum died?”

He shrugs. “Younger than Jayda.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Not much. Not _enough_.”

“Rickon doesn’t remember our parents. He was just…just a baby. We were all so young then, he didn’t seem so little, but he was. I don’t even know if he really remembers _me_ either or if he just _wants_ to.” She bats away a stray tear. “They were good people, better than me. It’s not right he doesn’t remember them.”

“You’ll remind him. You’ll tell him about them like you’ve told me. I mean, I never met your mum, but I know plenty about her.”

“What would you tell Jenny?” When Gendry only looks at her in confusion, she adds, “If I died. What would you tell Jenny about me?”

“Arya – “

“You must’ve thought about it when I was sick. Don’t lie.”

“I would’ve told her you were brave and strong and stubborn. I would’ve told her about Winterfell and how much you loved it there. I would’ve given her your sword and told her about Jon. I would’ve – I would’ve told her you wanted her to be whoever she wanted to be.”

They lapse into silence again, the stillness of the castle seeming to scream around them, and Arya finds herself resting her head against his shoulder the way she had a thousand times before when they were on the road together.

“Why did you come to me that night?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“You wanted to fuck me before you married someone else?”

“I didn’t want to marry him. But the Brotherhood wasn’t going to help me get Winterfell back, wasn’t going to do _anything_, and I needed an army. Aegon offered me one.” She lifts her head off of his shoulder, twisting her body so that she is looking at him. Gendry imitates the movement, meeting her gaze. “During the Rebellion, our fathers needed more armies, so they went to my Grandfather Hoster. He said the only way the Riverlands would join them was if my father fulfilled the marriage contract my mother had with my Uncle Brandon and if Jon Arryn married my Aunt Lysa. They were strangers on their wedding day, but it was how things had to be done during war. It didn’t seem so different for me to marry Aegon.”

“That doesn’t explain why – “

“If I was going to spend the rest of my life married to a man I wasn’t sure I’d ever love, I wanted to, at least, lose my maidenhead to a man I _did_ love.” Breaking his gaze, she cannot help but petulantly add, “I put it all in my letter.”

“Well, what kind of an idiot leaves a letter for a man who can’t read?”

With a sigh, she forces herself to look at him again. “I wanted you to be safe and have those things you offered me even if it wasn’t _with_ me. The whole bloody way back to The Crossroads, I prepared myself to walk in and find out you’d married Jeyne and never wanted to see me again.”

“I wanted those things with _you_, not anyone else. And that’s not…I love Jeyne but not like that, _never_ like that.” He makes a noise in his chest that is too rough to be a laugh. “She was the one who told me about Jenny. I tried to kiss her because I was so fucking angry at you, and she grabbed me by my shirt, told me to stop being such a bullheaded coward and get my ass up the stairs to see my daughter.”

“Sounds like her.”

“Are you – That is, does she – Have you – “ Gendry sighs, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “I’m not like my father.”

“I know that.”

“No, I mean – “ He sighs again. “I don’t even know what I bloody mean. I know you’re going to do whatever you want to do because you always do, but I’m not leaving unless you tell me to go.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you want me to come to Winterfell, I’ll come. If you want me to stay here or go with the Brotherhood or just plain fuck off, I’ll do that. But I’m here until _you_ tell me you don’t want me here. I’m not leaving you.”

Trying to hide how deeply the promise touches her, she quips, “So what, you’re just going to sit in the hallway every night?”

He rolls his eyes as he turns, leaning back against the wall again. “You’re such a brat.”

Arya isn’t certain when they fell asleep, but she wakes stiff and cold to the chamber door opening, a bleary eyed Rickon looking at the two of them in confusion before asking, “Who are you?”

“This is Gendry,” she says, wincing as she gets to her feet and stretches, hearing Jenny’s escalating hunger cries from inside the chamber. “He’s Jenny’s father.”

Rickon looks at Gendry, cocking his head, before asking, “Then why is he sleeping on the floor? Are you mad at him?”

Arya ignores the question, going to get Jenny. She is almost out of earshot when she hears Rickon ask, “Are you the king?”

* * *

Arya is grateful she and Bran are alone when he tells her what happened at Winterfell, how he and Rickon ended up at Greywater Watch with Hodor and the wildling woman Rickon clings to like a mother. The rage and betrayal she feels toward Theon quickly gives way to devastation as Bran recounts Ser Rodrik’s botched execution and Maester Luwin’s death. She weeps as he tells her how Winterfell burned, how they’d relied on Meera and Jojen to lead them to Greywater Watch, how Hodor carried Bran on his back while Rickon kept asking why this was happening. 

“Once everyone thought we were dead, it was easier to stay safe,” Bran states, and Arya knows what he means because isn’t that what she’d done? “We thought we’d wait here until we could reach Robb and Mother but…”

She nods, wiping at her cheeks. “I’m glad you had each other, that you weren’t alone.”

“Did you feel alone?”

“Sometimes. I missed you. I missed all of you. I wanted to go home. But I also had Willow and Jeyne and Gendry and the rest of the Brotherhood. It could’ve been worse.” She winces. “I think it’s been worst for Sansa.”

Bran shakes his head. “It hasn’t been easy for her, but it hasn’t been all terrible.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I check on her. It was easy to keep an eye on her because I always knew where she was. _You_ hid too well.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“It’s difficult to explain. Jojen thinks we might all be able to do it, but Rickon doesn’t have the patience to practice.” He smiles. “I’m not certain you do either.”

“Just because you’re in that chair doesn’t mean I won’t hit you.”

Bran’s smile stretches into the expression Arya remembers from before his fall. “Is that any way for a queen and a mother to behave?”

“I’m only really one of those things, and I’m not even certain I’m that good at it. Shouldn’t you know that if you’re magic?”

He laughs. “I’m not a wizard. It’s just…old magic, like the Children of the Forest had. It’s in our blood.”

“Can you see the future, see how this will all work out?”

“If I could do that, we wouldn’t have lost so many people.” He looks at her in that new, unnerving way he has and ventures, “The future isn’t set, you know. You can still make it whatever you want.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Nothing in this world is simple, but I know you. You know what you want. You always know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. You’re just stubborn. Like a bull,” he adds with a smirk.

Arya makes good on her promise, punching him solidly in the shoulder.

* * *

As always, she finds Gendry in the forge. He is fascinated by the weapons the crannogmen use, and she isn’t surprised to find him watching as one of the small men shape a three-headed spear like the one Meera carried. Gendry looks up when she enters, his look of concentration quickly replaced by a smile when he sees Jenny is in her arms.

“Why are you dressed so fine?” he asks as he wipes his dirty hands on a rag, thanking the armorer as he grabs his cloak and wraps it around his shoulders as they step out of the thatched hut, Gendry having to duck his head so as not to hit the doorframe. 

“I’m not dressed fine,” she argues, feeling her cheeks heat as she self-consciously brushes her free hand against the rather plain grey of her skirt. “And it’s because I’m going to the godswood.”

“You got to dress fine to go to a proper godswood?”

“No, stupid, you can wear regular clothes, but it’s special.” Shifting Jenny in her arms, wincing as a chubby hand somehow manages to still grasp and tug at a hank of her hair, she explains, “You’re supposed to take your baby to the godswood and introduce it to the gods, so they’ll bless it. Usually you do it right after they’re born, but there wasn’t a godswood.”

Gendry nods. “Sounds nice.”

Arya exhales sharply, wondering why it’s so hard to make him understand what she’s saying sometimes. “Do you want to come?”

“You want me to?”

“No, I went walking around the entire damn castle looking for you just to let you know I _don’t_ want you coming!”

He glances down at himself. “I don’t look fancy like you.”

“I don’t care!” Wincing at the pitch of her own voice, she takes a deep breath, tries to calm herself, and say what she means. “When Rickon was born, we had to wait for his blessing until Mother was able to walk to the godswood with us. Father said it’s always best for the gods to bless the family together.” Smiling as Jenny starts to squirm, her chubby arms extending towards Gendry, she asks, “We’re still family, aren’t we?”

Gendry nods, lifting Jenny easily from her arms. “Never been to a blessing before.”

If Arya is honest, she’s only ever been to one that she remembers, and even that, she only has the vaguest recollections of attending. She’d been confused and bored, and Jon got her to stop complaining by giving her a piggyback ride to the godswood. Father made him put her down when it was time for them all to kneel at the base of the heart tree, and she didn’t really remember what he said so much as the comforting timbre of his voice as he said the words. All she really recalled was Mother passing Rickon to Father, and Rickon squawking with indignation as Father pronounced him to be Rickon of House Stark. Afterward, Robb put Sansa on his back while she got back on Jon’s, and they raced back to the castle where they gorged themselves on cakes the kitchen had made to celebrate Rickon’s birth.

There’ll be no cake today. The godswood of Greywater Watch is sparser than the one at Winterfell, the white bark and red leaves doing little to help the general drabness of the area. Gendry looks unnerved by the scowling face carved into the heart tree, but Arya has always associated weirwoods with her father and so she smiles into its countenance. 

She kneels in front of the heart tree and gestures for Gendry to do the same. Jenny begins to fuss, wanting to be put down, and Arya supposes if they’re doing this all backwards anyway, there’s no harm in letting Gendry sit her at the base of the heart tree, where she happily begins to pull up clumps of dead grass.

“We come before the Old Gods to ask for a blessing. This is Jenny of House – “ She stops, looking at Gendry out of the corner of her eyes. He looks back at her, no judgment on his face, and Arya finally looks back to the tree. “This is Jenny. She’s ours.”

It feels truer than anything else, and her father always said you could not lie to the gods in front of a heart tree. She knows Jenny wouldn’t be called “Stark” by anyone else in Westeros because she is a bastard, and it feels _wrong_ to call her Jenny Rivers as if she is just some faceless girl who doesn’t belong to anyone. Her girl is beautiful and smart, frustrating and stubborn, but she is _loved_, and Arya thinks that should matter more to the gods than any surname.

“Is she blessed now?” Gendry asks after a long beat.

Arya frowns. “I think so. I’m not sure how you tell if it worked.”

“Maybe we should stay a while longer, just in case?”

Arya considers teasing him for the suggestion, but given all they’ve been through, it isn’t the worst idea he’s ever had. They sit in silence, watching as Jenny scoots on her belly towards the heart tree, tapping the white bark with her hands. She hardly remains still anymore; just yesterday Meera Reed predicted she’d be walking by the time they reached Winterfell, and Arya doesn’t understand how time has gone so fast and so slow all at once.

“I love you, you know,” she blurts out, keeping her gaze firmly locked on the eyes of the heart tree. “I always have. And I don’t want you to leave, not ever.”

“I love you too.” His hands envelopes hers, warm and strong. “And I’m glad because I didn’t plan on leaving even if you told me to go.”

Arya laughs. “You’re such a stubborn ass.”

“Aye, and you’re just as bad. Worse, even.” He nods towards Jenny. “Imagine what she’ll be like.”

Jenny scoots towards them, her hands and the front of her gown dirty. Arya thinks of how many times she’d returned to her mother, hands and face dirty, gown an absolute mess, and how even as she clucked in disapproval, Catelyn Stark would smile and kiss her brow. She wonders how many times her parents discussed _her_ this way, their wild, confounding daughter who was nothing like her big sister.

“We’ll love her however she is.”

* * *

The day before they are to leave for Winterfell, Lemore appears at breakfast with hair as black as night, dressed in a fine gown of purple and silver. Even in septa’s robes she’d been pretty, but as she enters the hall, Arya thinks she’s never seen a woman so beautiful. She clearly isn’t the only one who thinks so because the Brotherhood, even the younger ones, stop talking and eating to watch her glide across the floor. It is only as she takes a seat across from Arya, brushing a dark curl away from her eyes, that she is hit so strongly by the familiarity of the gesture, she cannot believe she never realized the truth before now.

“You’re Ashara Dayne.”

Arya doesn’t bother phrasing it as a question, not when she knows the truth down into her bones. And, to her credit, Lemore - _Ashara_ \- does not deny it. Instead she says, “We’ve all done enough hiding for one lifetime, don’t you think?”

There are a million questions she wants to ask the older woman in that moment, but all Arya finds herself able to say is, “Don’t tell Jon who you really are if you plan on leaving him again. It’s too cruel.” 

Ashara’s smile is so sad, it makes Arya’s heart ache. “He isn’t the only one who’s waited so long for this.”

_But if you have to choose between him and Aegon, will you choose Jon?_

That is the question that will keep Arya awake every night of their journey to Winterfell.


	9. Chapter 9

The smallfolk line the roads as they approach Wintertown, some cheering, some clapping, and all Arya can think about is that long-ago day when King Robert rode into Winterfell and how excited she’d been to see something grand. She even spots some children climbing high on the walls to get a better look, and Arya could cry at how familiar this all is.

Nymeria and Shaggydog don’t like the crowds, and Arya sees Summer herding them to keep them from either attacking or escaping. Unlike Southerners, the Northmen around them view the direwolves as proof of House Stark’s resurgence, and prior to going South, they’d grown used to seeing the wolves; a few of them even throw scraps of meat in the wolves directions in celebration, and Arya hopes Summer can keep the others from doing something that will ruin their homecoming. 

Rickon doesn’t like the crowds either. He is inside the litter with Bran, Osha, Jenny, and Jojen Reed, the wildling woman murmuring to him in the Old Tongue the farther they got from Greywater Watch.

“Little lord’s been through a lot,” Osha said when Arya asked why Rickon was getting even more short-tempered the closer they got to Winterfell. “What he remembers of Winterfell isn’t happy things like you and Bran. He doesn’t want to lose again.”

Arya wanted to snap back at the woman, but she knew Osha was right. It was why she asked Rickon if he’d mind if Jenny rode in the litter with him, so he could protect her. The grin he’d given her was enough to almost put her worries aside. 

But as she truly takes in the sights of Wintertown, she realizes that it isn’t as it once was. The people are thinner with the same scarred looks in their eyes Arya recognized from the travelers who stopped into the Crossroads. Buildings were gone, burnt husks all that remained, and Arya stopped her horse entirely when they reached The Smoking Log to find the place cold.

“What happened here?” she calls to a man as she slips out of her saddle, gesturing towards the inn. When the man starts to take the knee, Arya grabs him by his cloak and yanks him upright. “Stop it! What happened to the inn? Where is everyone?”

“Bastard of Bolton happened,” a boy of about ten pipes up from beside the man, his face dirty and so thin Arya can make out every bone. “When they ran low on supplies, they came and took all the ones we had. Burned out anyone who resisted and when he got to the inn, he took everything and killed the Old Man when he tried to stop him from taking his wife and daughters. Set his dogs on the whole lot, m’lady, and said he’d do the same to anyone who tried to help.”

Arya looks at the people gathered, their eyes on her as if they are uncertain if they should take the knee or run, and she hopes Jon made Ramsay Bolton suffer before he killed him. As the rest of the train slows to a stop, Arya hands the reins of her horse to the startled boy before crossing to where the Brotherhood remains mounted. 

“Harwin, take Anguy and a few others into the wolfswood. Fell as much as you can carry and bring it back here.” 

“Lady Arya – “ Beric begins but she ignores him, locking gazes with Harwin.

“I don’t care if you’re a Stark man or without a banner. You’re a Northman, aren’t you?” She throws her arm in the direction of the people gathered. “So are they, and they’re starving. The only ones who know these woods are you and me. Which of us is going?”

Harwin nods, barking a few names before leading them off of the muddy kingsroad towards the woods. Arya looks at Ned Dayne, and he seems to sit straighter in his saddle.

“Congratulations, Ned. You’re Lord Commander of the Queensguard, and your first job is to escort my brothers and daughter to Winterfell. Take the litter, the younger orphans, whoever can’t work, and deliver them to Winterfell. We’ll be along when things are settled here.”

“Are you mad?” Tom asks with a laugh. “You’ve been whining about getting back to your bloody castle as long as I’ve known you, we’re not even a few hours ride from it, and you aren’t going?”

Rather than address the question, she smiles and declares, “You’ll be staying with us. They’ll want music. Gendry?” She hasn’t even finished saying his name before he is off of his horse, unloading his bag and hammer, and she loves him a little bit more for not asking any questions. “Get fires going in every fireplace in that building, hot as you can get them.”

She works quickly, assigning men to accompany Ned to Winterfell, including Beric and Thoros. Each time one of them object, Arya ignores them, ordering Lem and the older orphans, including Jayda, to start unloading all of their supplies into the Smoking Log. Jeyne and Willow both smile when they realize what Arya is doing, Jeyne tying up her hair at once as she begins barking orders to Rory and Jayda about how she wants items organized, and Arya thinks it may not be the Crossroads, but it’s _something_.

“How can I help?” Ashara asks, and though she is afraid of what will happen between Ashara and Jon when she is not there, Arya needs something from her.

“We can stay with you,” Bran offers when Arya pops her head into the litter to explain why they’ve stopped and why Ashara is going to ride with them to the castle. “If you’re going to help the smallfolk, we can do something.”

“No, it’s fine.” When he opens his mouth to object, she cuts him off, “I’ve been living in an inn for the past six years. We’ll be fine. Once they’re fed, we’ll ride on and meet you at Winterfell. All I need for you to do is get Jenny there. Ashara can help if she starts kicking up a fuss.”

“She’s fine,” Rickon harrumphs, his arms full of Jenny, jerking his niece away from Ashara as she climbs into the litter. “I got her, Arya. I’ll protect her.”

Though he hates it, Arya kisses him in the middle of his forehead before climbing out of the litter. Meera Reed and Hodor stand there, and Arya smiles up at Hodor and says, “You’ll protect them, won’t you?”

“Hodor,” he agrees at once, and Arya embraces him tight around his middle before turning her attention to Meera.

“Nymeria will go with you all, and if you need anything, talk to Ned Dayne. When you get to Winterfell, you tell Jon I said you’re…I don’t know, our most honored guests or something.” Meera laughs, but Arya moves forward, clasping her hand tight around Meera’s forearm. “I mean it. What your family has done for mine…It’s a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”

Meera twists her arm, now clasping Arya’s forearm as well. “We made an oath long ago, and House Reed honors its oaths.”

She is not three steps into the Smoking Log when Jeyne is shoving a bag of potatoes and a paring knife at her. “Queen or not, you don’t have those peeled in a quarter-hour, I’ll smack you good.”

Arya grins. “Yes, Jeyne.”

* * *

By nightfall, the Smoking Log is packed so full, Arya can hardly move through the throng to deliver bowls of Jeyne’s stew or drink. Once it got around town that Ned Stark’s girl was at the Smoking Log, offering free, hot meals to any who needed one, people came streaming through the door and hadn’t stopped yet. It only got worse when Harwin, Anguy, and the others returned with fresh game, and soon they were all working like mad to get the animals cleaned so Jeyne and Willow could start cooking them as well.

“This all goes to the table in the corner,” Arya tells Gendry as she loads up the largest tray they found, weighing it down with bowls and plates. He lifts it as if it weighs nothing at all, and she calls him a show-off and adds another bowl for good measure.

He grins. “You’re a soft heart, Arya Stark.”

“And you’re a stupid ass,” she retorts with a smirk, snapping him with a rag and earning a shout from him for it.

She feels a bit like a spectacle as she moves about the inn. It seems as if every man who ever so much as passed by her father feels the need to stop her and tell her how she has the Stark look; some of the older ones make mention of Aunt Lyanna, how she is as beautiful as her aunt had been, and more than one toast is raised in honor of her beauty, each one making her want to die on the spot. The toasts for her generosity and the return of House Stark are more welcome if no less embarrassing, and the inn becomes downright raucous when Tom starts plucking out “The Bear and the Maiden Fair.” 

Arya is startled when Willow comes up behind her and embraces her, the difference in their heights turning the hug into a borderline headlock. She twists her head towards the younger Heddle sister, and Willow smiles, kissing her temple.

“Are you drunk?”

“No, I’m just…I’m glad the Brotherhood took you hostage all those years ago. I mean, I didn’t love the parts where we had to run for our lives, but the rest has been interesting.”

Across the room, she watches as Gendry hefts Jayda up until she is on his back, giggling as he pushes his way through the throng to try to reach the kitchens. “It really has been.”

* * *

The linens in the guest rooms are dusty but usable, and as the night goes on, Jeyne starts sending the orphans to bed. Arya finds herself tucking in the younger ones, assigning rooms so that everyone is taken care of, and she can’t help but smile when she exits one room to find Gendry at the top of the stairs, Jayda and an orphan called Flora asleep in his arms. Arya points to a room, and he nods, following the direction and gently setting both girls onto the narrow bed inside the room.

“It’s still a madhouse down there,” he says as he closes the door, “and it doesn’t look like it’s stopping any time soon. You did a kind thing here but – “

Arya doesn’t plan on kissing him, but half-drunk with exhaustion and the emotion of the day, she cannot seem to stop herself from stepping into him, grasping the front of his shirt, and hauling him down so she can reach him. Gendry hesitates only a moment before he is kissing her fiercely, and Arya gasps as he reaches down, catching her behind the thighs, and lifting her off of her feet. She wraps her legs around his waist on instinct, burying her fingers in his hair to keep him close, and Gendry groans deep in his chest as she wiggles against him.

“Where?” he mumbles against her mouth, and Arya flails an arm behind her that does nothing to actually direct him to an empty room.

How they manage to end up in an empty room, Arya isn’t sure. As they crash through a door, Gendry kicks it closed behind them, somehow managing never to break the kiss, and not for the first time, Arya wonders why they spent so much time bickering instead of doing _this_. She doesn’t even realize she’s voiced the thought aloud until Gendry laughs breathlessly, dropping her onto the bed as he toes off his boots.

“Because Thoros threatened to geld me if I ever touched you. So did Beric. And Harwin. Ned didn’t threaten it, but he certainly would’ve helped.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pushing it up. As he pulls it over his head, she drags her fingers over his chest, following the lines of cut muscle over his middle, and when she presses a kiss near his navel, his moan makes her shiver.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she confesses as she undoes the laces of his pants, her hands surprisingly unsteady as she pushes them over his hips. “I’ve only done this just the once, you know?”

“You did fine last time.” 

Arya twists the skin of his hip between two fingers, a move perfected in a hundred squabbles with Sansa, wringing a sharp cry of pain from him. “’Fine?’ Just fine?”

He slaps her hand away, crowding her back onto the mattress until she is on her back. His kiss is firm and long, his hands skimming down her body to tug her tunic free of her pants. When the kiss breaks, he brushes a series of kisses against her jaw, her throat, and her collarbone. “I’m not a bloody poet, all right? It was more than fine. It was…You fucking ruined me, you know that?”

“Didn’t mean to,” she says, her voice small as they work her tunic over her head.

Bracing himself atop her, Gendry rests his forehead against hers for a moment before murmuring, “If we do this, promise you’ll be here when it’s over.”

Arya clasps his face between her palms. “I’m not going anywhere. Now take my pants off all ready.”

He grins. “As m’lady commands.”

“Don’t call me that,” she orders, lifting her hips to help him strip off her pants.

“Yes, m’lady,” he agrees, tossing the pants over his shoulder and kissing the inside of her left knee.

She groans. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And then his mouth finds its way between her legs and arguing becomes the last thing on Arya’s mind.

* * *

Making up for lost time almost meant losing track of time, and this only occurs to Arya when someone begins to pound on the door of their room. She is currently straddling Gendry in the chair near the fireplace, both of them slick with sweat, Arya moving desperately in pursuit of another orgasm, and it takes her a moment to connect the sound to what it is.

“Go away!” she shouts, grasping Gendry’s hair tight as she grinds against him.

“Guys – “

“Fuck off, Anguy!” Gendry roars, thrusting up and wringing a high-pitched cry from Arya as her pleasure crests, shaking against him. 

For a moment there is silence, and Arya has just caught Gendry’s mouth for a lazy kiss when the banging starts again. With a growl, she climbs out of his lap, earning a hearty groan of disapproval from Gendry, and grabs a sheet off of the bed, wrapping it around her body as she crosses to the door. She wrenches open the door, growling, “I swear to gods, Anguy, I’m – “

Except it isn’t just Anguy on the other side of the door. It’s Anguy and an older, bearded man Arya doesn’t recognize, who takes one look at her and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

“Who the hells are you? What do you want?”

The older man clears his throat. “Begging your pardon, your grace. I’m Ser Davos Seaworth. I’m here on behalf of Jon Snow.”

All the combativeness goes out of her body. “Jon sent you?”

“He asked me to escort you and your party to the castle. He thought the men you sent with your brothers would need the rest.” He clears his throat again. “I think I’ll wait downstairs, see if I can get a bowl of whatever smells so fine.”

Arya nods, trying to manage a smile as the man turns on his heel and heads downstairs. Anguy moves to follow him, but her hand shoots out, grabbing his arm as she hisses, “Why did you bring him up here?”

“Because he said he was here on the order of the King in the North, and I’m rather attached to my head!” Arya hears the floorboards creak behind her, and she feels Gendry coming to stand behind her. “Besides, it’s almost dawn; I thought you’d be done by now. You two are animals.”

“Fuck off!” Gendry says as Arya punches Anguy in the arm.

* * *

Anguy hadn’t been exaggerating. When she and Gendry make it downstairs, Arya can see the sun starting to rise in the distance. The crowds from the night before thinned out to a few stragglers, a few others passed out on their tables. Willow is half-drowsing herself at one of the tables with Harwin and some of the others, Jeyne seated at a table with Ser Davos. She looks as exhausted as the rest of them, but whatever the man says to her, makes Jeyne smile enough to bring life back into her face. A few of the orphans are awake, shuffling into the room looking for breakfast, and as she and Gendry enter the dining room, Tom looks up and grins lecherously.

“You two have a good rest then?”

“I’m still better with a sword than you,” Arya reminds him as Ser Davos’s grow wide as he catches his first glimpse of Gendry. “No one would complain if I ran you through.”

Willow groans, half-heartedly lifting a hand. “I’ll complain. I’m too tired to scrub blood off of the floor right now.”

“No one’s getting stabbed. Might not be my inn but inn rules still apply. Any stabbing, you take it outside.” Jeyne shakes her head as she takes in the two of them. “There’s some sausages and biscuits in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

Gendry nods, moving towards the kitchen to prepare plates while Arya takes a seat beside Willow, who instantly curls up against her shoulder. Arya meets Ser Davos’s gaze for a moment before stating, “I appreciate you coming, but I know the way back to the castle. It was unnecessary.”

He nods in understanding before wiping at his mouth with the napkin. Arya sees several of his fingers are shortened. “I trust your sense of direction, your grace, but your brother was beside himself when your party reached the castle, and you weren’t with them. If not for your brothers’ explanations and assurances, I think he would’ve ridden here himself.”

“The people here were starving. We had to help.”

“The Bolton bastard did much damage. We’ve been trying to help as much as we can, but unfortunately, they aren’t the only ones in the North starving. The war has been hard on us all.”

“Seaworth isn’t a Northern name. Were you at the Wall with Jon?”

“No, I came North with Stannis Baratheon. I was – I was the Hand of the King.”

“Which king was that one?” one of the orphans asks.

“King Robert’s brother,” Arya answers, her stomach sinking as she thinks of the little girl from the Stormlands still sleeping upstairs whose father marched North with Stannis never to be heard from again. “Is he with Jon?”

For the first time, Arya sees a hint of darkness in the man’s eyes. “He’s dead.” As Gendry reappears from the kitchen, two plates in his hands, Ser Davos looks at him again before venturing, “You’re one of Robert’s?”

Gendry sets one of the plates in front of Arya before taking a seat with a weary sigh. “I don’t know. Never met my father, never knew who he was, but we think…”

“The Gold Cloaks came after him after Robert died, and anyone who sees him asks the same thing. My father went and saw him too, before he died, so it’s probably true.” Digging into the food, she adds, her mouth full, “But it doesn’t matter who his bloody father is.”

“No, I suppose not.” Davos takes a heavy pull from his tankard of beer. “Please excuse the question, your grace, but we’d been told you’d married.”

There is a distinct sense of discomfort around the room, but Arya ignores it as she says, “I did.”

“To the man claiming to be Aegon Targaryen,” Davos adds.

“I did.”

“Right. And the child with your brothers, she’s – “

“Mine, yes.”

“So, she’s…the princess then?”

“No.”

Gendry’s single word is sharp and firm, seeming to echo in the otherwise quiet room, but it is enough to make Ser Davos nod once in understanding before returning to eating his meal. They are almost finished, more orphans making their ways downstairs, when Arya ventures, “Ser Davos, when you tell Jon about today – “

“I will tell him what a wonderful job you lot did here and nothing else.” Davos smiles. “You might be big, son, but not even the gods themselves could save you if I told him what I saw today.”

* * *

It is as they’re readying the horses that Arya realizes Jeyne and Willow are nowhere to be found. She is only a few steps into the inn when she sees Willow is wiping down tables while Jeyne is cutting carrots, instructing Rory on what the menu will be for the evening.

“You’re not coming, are you?”

The Heddle sisters both look up, but while Willow stops what she’s doing, Jeyne doesn’t quit moving. Instead she moves to the next table, scrubbing at it as she says, “We aren’t castle folk, Arya; we’re innkeepers. The people here need an inn, and the children need a home.”

“Winterfell – “

“Winterfell is _your_ home, not ours.”

Arya looks at Willow, who has tears in her eyes. “You feel this way too?”

Willow wipes at her face. “I always knew it was going to be like this, Arya.”

“Be like what?”

“Whether you’re queen or not, you’re still Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell. We’d be the ones cooking your supper and tending to Jenny, but we wouldn’t be like we were at the Crossroads. And Jeyne’s right. The people here need us, and it isn’t so far from the castle if you want to come and see us.” Willow’s voice cracks as she asks, “You and Jenny will come to see us, right?”

She crosses the room quickly, grabbing Willow into the tightest hug she can manage. Willow clutches her back just as strong, her tears hot against Arya’s neck. “Of course, we will. How could we not? She likes you better than me.”

“Shut up,” Willow laughs wetly. “And we’ll come visit the castle, yeah? The kids will go mad if they don’t get to see it.”

“You’re always welcome.” Meeting Jeyne’s gaze, she stresses, “Both of you. I never would’ve survived without you. _Jenny_ wouldn’t have survived. I owe you everything.”

“You owe us nothing,” Jeyne declares, wiping her hands on the apron she wears, “except mayhaps an inn, and you’ve delivered that. You’re not even a day’s ride away, so I don’t know why the two of you are carrying on this way. Now you’d best get on your horse and start riding before that kingly brother of yours sends an army to get you.”

Jayda is outside with some of the orphans when Arya exits the inn, and she smiles at the girl as she asks, “Are you staying here too?”

“Of course not! I was just telling them how to roll out the dough Jeyne likes so they don’t get in trouble.” Dropping her voice into a whisper as she falls into step beside Arya, she adds, “We’re going to still see them though, right?”

Arya drops a kiss to the top of Jayda’s head. “Absolutely. They’re our family too.”

* * *

She is almost asleep in her saddle, Jayda chatting away in front of her to Ser Davos who rides beside them, when Winterfell’s walls rise in the distance. Arya is suddenly wide awake, a nervous flutter beginning in her gut. It is just as she remembered it and yet she knows it is different, and she isn’t certain if she wants to ride wildly for the gates or turn back completely, keeping Winterfell just as she remembered it forever. 

“Wow,” Jayda murmurs. “We’re going to live _there_?”

From behind them, Harwin gives a shout, and Arya watches as he rides out in front of them, hollering nonsense, and she smiles; she’d forgotten that she wasn’t the only one coming home. Despite how much Jayda hates it, Arya urges her horse on faster, sending it from a walk to a run, and she hears Ser Davos curse before doing the same.

“I hate horses,” Jayda moans as they ride through the gates, Arya pulling tight on the reins to slow the horse to a stop. “I’m never riding one again.”

Arya ignores her, dismounting with ease as the rest of their party starts entering the gates. She has only just turned towards the castle when Jon bursts through the entryway, his serious face splitting into a grin so wide, it makes Arya cry out like a child as she rushes to him.

He meets her halfway, lifting her off of her feet with the force of his hug, and though she doesn’t intend to, Arya cannot stop herself from crying, so happy and overwhelmed with his presence, she feels both lost and found all at once.

“Don’t cry, little sister,” Jon requests, his own voice thick with emotion. “You’re home now.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: a wildling attempts to "steal" Arya in this chapter. Nothing graphic happens, but there's still a struggle.

From the moment her father lost his head, Arya thought everything would be all right if she could just get home to her family. It was the thought that sustained her through every terrible day at Harrenhal, every cold, hungry night on the road with Gendry and Hot Pie, and every other day when who she’d once been felt farther and farther away. If she could just get back to Winterfell, if she could just be with Sansa and her brothers, everything would be fine.

Except now she’s here with her brothers, with _Jon_, with her daughter and Gendry and Jayda and near everyone in the world she cares for, and she’s miserable.

Arya tries to tell herself it is an exaggeration. It isn’t as if she is crying herself to sleep at night. She loves being with Bran and Rickon, loves breaking her fast with Jon and his wildling friends, loves showing Jenny all the nooks and crannies of the castle, but it is different. Sometimes it feels as if there are ghosts around every corner; she’ll catch a glimpse of red out of the corner of her eye and for a stupid, wild second, she’ll think it’s her mother. A man will laugh in the yard, and she’ll hope it’s Robb, come to tell them how all the stories were wrong, that he’d slipped away from The Twins unscathed. 

There is a statue in the crypts of her father. Jon told her about it, said it’s a fair likeness of him if she’d like to pay her respects, and Arya agreed but hasn’t ventured down there. It’s different with Father. Arya knows there is no chance he is going to reappear in the castle, knows he did not escape death, but seeing his statue, just another stone face in a crypt full of them, will make him well and truly _gone_. She’s looked upon the other statues there, the ones of Grandfather Rickard and Uncle Brandon and even Aunt Lyanna, and they meant nothing more to her than all the other ancestors because she’d never known them. That is how Jenny will look upon her grandfather’s statue, and it is _that_ more than anything that makes Arya ache with grief. 

There is also nothing to do. At The Crossroads, there were jobs, whether you wanted to do them or not; if you lived there, you worked, and Arya hadn’t realized she’d grown used to that life until she found herself a highborn lady again. She practiced her archery, but she could only do that for so long. A few times she’d brought out Needle, tried to get someone to spar with her, but no one would spar with her, not even the wildlings.

“Your brother wouldn’t like it,” Ned Dayne says after she nearly begs him to spar with practice swords, and Arya wants to scream because who cares if Jon wouldn’t like them sparring with her? When she brings it up to him, Jon smiles at her like she’s still a little girl and offers, “I’ll spar with you later if you like.”

“I don’t want to spar with you! I mean, I do,” she rushes on when she sees how the words have stung him, “but I want to spar with other people too! It’s not fair. They’re in the yard with Rickon right now – “

“Rickon needs to learn how to handle a sword.”

“And I don’t because I’m a woman?”

“No, you don’t because you’re a mother now. What if you were injured? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if Jenny ended up without a mother because of something I allowed.”

“I’m better with a sword than most of the men! Ask Beric or Thoros – “

“Arya, I’m not trying to punish you. I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection! I haven’t had protection since I was nine-years-old!”

Jon frowns, a deep sadness filling his face. “And you’ll never know how sorry I am for that. Why don’t we go riding? You always loved – “

“Any time I saddle a horse, you make me take men with me, and they don’t ride as well so there’s no fun to it. You won’t let me go into town to see Jeyne and Willow – “

“I’m trying to do what’s best for all of us, what’s expected of us! Whether I like it or not, I’m King in the North, and you’re – “ He throws up his hands. “You might end up Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and there are those who aren’t ready to support your husband any more than they support Joffrey.”

“Aegon has nothing to do with whether or not I can walk five steps outside the castle without everyone treating me like I’ll faint!”

But the worst is the Brotherhood. 

None of them talk to her now like they once did; there is no playing cards or trading bawdy jokes. They all call her “my lady,” inclining their heads in deference. The orphans, even Jayda, have all been given jobs to do around the castle, most of them being tended to by the servants and wildling women. The first time Jayda addresses her as “my lady,” Arya snaps, “That’s not my name!” with enough bite that it makes tears come to Jayda’s eyes, and Arya finds herself embracing the girl, apologizing for yelling at her when she knows it isn’t her fault.

Even Gendry, now running Mikken’s forge, doesn’t acknowledge her when they pass in the yard. She seeks him out in the forge a few times, usually with Jenny in her arms after taking some walk, and it frustrates her, the way he keeps his distance, the way he seems to be able to fall back into old habits so easily.

As the second moon at Winterfell begins, Arya is ready to scream. Bran and Rickon are happy to be home. Any moment he isn’t with Ser Davos or another of his men, Jon is with Ashara, trying to make up for lost time; he wants them all to be a family and Arya wants that for him, but there is still a nagging fear in her heart that Ashara will choose Aegon if the time comes. Sometimes, when Jon insists they all dine together, smiling at them all, making Jenny giggle in his arms, Arya wants to scream, “What about Sansa? What about our nieces? What about Joffrey? Why are we just sitting here when we aren’t finished yet?!”

She’s just left one of those dinners to put Jenny down when the urge to escape becomes too great. Once she has tucked Jenny into her cradle, Arya finds herself slipping out to the forge rather than returning to her siblings. Gendry is the only one still working, seated at a bench as he makes his mark into the steel, and he does not look up as she enters. The heat is sweltering inside despite the bite in the Northern air, and she understands why he is down to his boots and pants, his broad shoulders and chest slick with sweat. It is only after he has finished, putting aside his tools, that he sighs, “You shouldn’t be out here after nightfall.”

“Out of all the places I’ve snuck into in order to see you, Winterfell is the safest.”

“For you, maybe. But your brother and his wildling friends will cut off my cock and feed it to me if they find my dirty hands on you.”

“I wouldn’t let them.”

“He’s King in the North.”

“And I’m Queen of Westeros, remember?”

Gendry’s face darkens. “How could I forget?”

“Is that why you hate me again? Because you seemed to like me plenty in the inn.”

“I don’t hate you, Arya. I’m just – “ He sighs, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “I have to remember my place.”

“Your _place_?” She scoffs. “Your place is with me and Jenny. And Jayda, I suppose.”

“But it isn’t. You always say how stupid I am, but you’re the one who doesn’t seem to understand that you were the daughter of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell and I was the son – “

“Of King Robert!”

“Of a tavern girl,” he corrects, “and only a tavern girl. Because unlike your brother, my lord father never acknowledged me, never took me up to his castle and saw to it I was anything. If Mott hadn’t taken me on because I was strong, I’d probably have ended up a thief in Flea Bottom – “

“Why are you talking like this? I don’t care! None of it matters, not now when we’re together. Do you love me because my father was Ned Stark?”

“No, of course not.”

“So why do you think I give a shit if you were born in Flea Bottom?” Her stomach churns as she asks the question she never thought she’d even _think_, let alone voice. “Do you want to leave? We could take Jenny and Jayda, and we could go. Remember what you said the first night? We could find a house – “

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’s fine. Everything feels wrong here. We could go somewhere no one knows us, start over where no one will ever care – “

“No!” He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “Are you mad? From the moment we met, all you’ve talked about was Winterfell and Jon and the North, and we’re finally here and you want to _go_?”

“If it means things will feel normal again – “

“It’s never going to feel normal again, Arya. Your parents and brother are gone. Your sister isn’t here. None of you are children anymore. You _have_ a child. And you can’t just grab Jenny and run because you’re upset.”

“That’s not what I’m doing! I want to be with you! I thought you’d want this! You _said_ you wanted this!”

“We didn’t have other options then.”

Arya thinks she’d prefer he run her through with the blade he’d been working on than say those words. “So you’ve found a better option than us then.”

“What? No! Seven hells, Arya, that’s not what I mean!”

“What _do_ you mean?”

“I mean, how many times did we have to hide so people wouldn’t hurt us? How many nights did we go to sleep starving and cold and without a roof over our heads? Even at the inn, how many bowls of soup did we eat that were little more than water and bits of whatever vegetables Jeyne was able to cut the rot off of to serve us? I don’t want that for Jenny. I don’t want that for _you_.”

“But I want – Don’t you want – “ Arya tries to catch her breath, tries to keep the tears threatening at bay, as she manages to choke out, “We’re supposed to be family.”

Gendry finally breaks, coming around his bench and wrapping her up in his arms. Arya clings to him at once, digging her fingers into the strength of his shoulders, stretching as high on her toes as she can to try to get closer. It takes almost no effort for him to lift her off of her feet, and Arya wraps her legs around his waist, savoring the warm solidity of him. 

“Everything feels upside down,” she murmurs against his neck, her lips brushing against his skin, the salt of his sweat hitting her tongue. “And Jon isn’t listening. I try and try, but he still thinks I’m a child. Everyone treats me like I’m going to break.”

“They want to treat you like a lady.”

“’M not a lady.” She nips his shoulder hard enough to make him hiss. “I’m a wolf.”

“We’re not doing this,” he mumbles weakly as Arya begins to kiss her way up his throat, wriggling against him.

“You should tell your cock that then because it seems to think we are.” She removes one of her hands from his shoulders to draw his face to hers for a long, lingering kiss. Only when they come up for air does she whisper, “You have a bed in here or are you going to fuck me over the bench?”

“Kind of want to fuck you over the bench,” he admits between kisses as he carries her back towards his room. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought – “

“Yes, I do,” she assures him, thinking of the forge at The Crossroads, of the days sitting and watching him work, wanting to run her hands over his skin and not fully understanding why. 

As her back hits the thin mattress of his cot, Arya wonders how long it will take to convince him to fuck her over the bench.

* * *

Like most troublesome situations she’s found herself in over the years, this one starts with boredom.

Jenny is napping, Bran is doing something with Jojen, Rickon is complaining loudly about having to do lessons with Jon’s friend Sam, and Jon is off somewhere with Ser Davos. Arya decides to talk a walk around the godswood and back just for something to do, certain she’ll scream if she remains inside much longer.

As silly as it sounds, she doesn’t understand what’s happening at first. When her body jerks backwards, she thinks her cloak must’ve caught on something, but then she realizes someone’s rough hand is gripping her wrist. Arya turns and sees it is one of the young wildling men. He isn’t one of the ones always with Jon, and Arya doesn’t think he’s much older than she is; he might even be younger, and while he’s not broad or bulky, he towers over her. When his other hand reaches for her, instinct kicks in, and Arya bends down, avoiding the hand and twisting under the arm currently holding her, forcing him to release her or break his arm. Arya grunts when he catches her cloak, pulling her back towards him, and she jerks off the pin holding it in place, running as fast as she can as he’s left holding the fabric. She manages to make it out of the tree line when he catches her, driving her to the cold ground. He grunts something at her in Old Tongue, but Arya doesn’t understand; all she knows is a strange man is holding her down, and she doesn’t have a weapon.

It takes considerable effort to wriggle enough to get onto her back, the skinny man grunting the entire time as he tries to contain her. As he is trying to catch hold of her wrists, Arya sees there is a knife on his belt, and it becomes her sole focus. And then the man grasps the neck of her tunic, ripping it enough to reveal her shoulder and the top of her breast, and Arya screams a howl so indignant with rage, it startles him just long enough for her hand to find its way to the hilt of the knife. She jerks it out of the sheath and into his side so fast, the man doesn’t even realize it’s happening until _he_ is shouting, his blood spilling hot over both of them. 

Arya scrambles out from under him, the knife still in hand. She transfers it into her left hand, needing to be more prepared if he attacks again, but the man is groaning, holding his hands against the stab wound, babbling in Old Tongue. As Arya takes him in, her shock begins to give way to outrage, and she finds herself hauling back and kicking the man as hard as she can in the ribs. He howls, and Arya kicks him again, shouting every vile curse she’s ever heard.

She leaves him in the dirt, blood hot from the fight, knife still in hand as she begins the return to the castle. The yard has only come into view when Nymeria nearly bowls her over, making more noise than she has since a pup, and Arya gets to her knees, sagging with relief against her wolf. It takes her a moment to realize Nymeria isn’t alone, that Jon, Ser Davos, Tormund Giantsbane, Thoros, and Beric are all rushing behind her wolf. Only when she hears Jon shout for the maester does whatever spell she’s been under break, and Arya shakes her head.

“Not my blood,” she says, holding up the knife before dropping it beside her. 

“Who – “

“A wildling. Didn’t catch his name.”

“Are you all right?” Jon asks, helping her to her feet. His eyes fall to her bared shoulder, and Arya sees both fear and rage fill in his face at once. “Where is he?”

“By the godswood. He’s hurt.”

“I’ll go,” Tormund offers, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry, little wolf. I told my men there’s no stealing this side of the Wall – “

“Stealing?” she echoes. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘raping.’”

Ser Davos takes off his cloak, offering it to her, and Arya manages a weak smile as she wraps it around her shoulders. Nymeria, still anxious, runs literal circles around them as they return to the castle, and they are just outside the castle when Gendry, returning back to the forge from somewhere, catches sight of them. Arya sees his eyes go wide only a moment before he is rushing towards them; she meets him halfway, throwing herself into his arms as his come around her, and vaguely she knows he is asking if she is all right, if someone hurt her. However, she doesn’t answer fast enough and then, to her absolute shock, Gendry begins to shout at Jon.

“You won’t let anyone spar with her, so she’ll be safe, and look what happens! This is how you protect her?! This is how your men treat her?!”

“Gendry – “

“No, look at you! This never happened once in all the years – “

Arya catches his face between her palms, forcing him to look at her. “I’m fine! Nothing happened to me. It wasn’t Jon’s fault.” When Gendry only looks at her, uncertainty on his face, she repeats, “I’m _fine_.”

“You don’t _look_ fine. You look – “

“Careful. I can stab you too, you know.”

A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Aye, you’ve threatened it before.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon speaks up, brow furrowing. “What’s going on?”

Davos claps Jon on the shoulder. “Why don’t we all go inside, sort this out away from an audience? It’ll give Lady Arya a chance to change as well.”

Jon looks uncertain even as he nods, and Arya steals a glance at Gendry. The panic seems to be dissipating from Gendry, but Arya sees it’s being replaced with the realization that he yelled at the King. As they enter the castle, Arya grabs Gendry’s hand, squeezing it in what she hopes is a comforting gesture.

Ashara is coming down the stairs with Jenny in her arms, the smile on her face melting away as she takes in the approaching group and Arya’s general state. Jenny, however, notices nothing but her parents, squealing in excitement and reaching with chubby arms. Ashara doesn’t say a word, smiling in greeting as she hands Jenny over to Gendry; Jenny immediately begins to babble, pressing open-mouthed, slobbery kisses against Gendry’s jawline.

“Arya, let me help you clean up. Where should we meet you?”

Jon, his brow somehow furrowed even more, looks between his mother and sister for a moment before managing, “My solar?”

“Wonderful.” Ashara wraps an arm around Arya’s shoulders, leading her towards the stairs. When she tries to look back to make sure Gendry is all right, Ashara whispers to her, “Don’t worry, dear. Jon won’t hit him so long as he’s holding the baby.”

Arya isn’t certain she likes the idea of her daughter being used as a human shield, but she also doesn’t want Jon and Gendry to fight. The moment they’re inside her room, Arya strips off her ruined shirt, removing a fresh one from her chest. By the time she has it on, Ashara is approaching her with a wet rag, cleaning the blood off of Arya’s skin with the same gentleness she uses to bathe Jenny.

“Tell him everything,” Ashara advises, cleaning dirt off of Arya’s face. 

“What, you haven’t already?” She winces. “I’m sorry. I’m not upset with you.”

“I know.” Setting the rag back into the basin, she adds, “I hope you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you or Jenny.”

“I’m not concerned about that.”

“You think I’ll hurt Jon?”

“I think everybody hurts everybody eventually.” She sighs, running her fingers through her hair in a quick attempt to smooth it. “And I really don’t have time to do this right now.”

Jon’s solar is painfully quiet when they enter, save for Jenny’s noises. Gendry has Jenny clutched to his chest in a borderline desperate hold, and Arya rolls her eyes, crossing to sit beside him and plucking Jenny from his arms. As expected, Jenny immediately begins to squirm, and Arya sets her onto the floor, where she immediately begins to crawl to Ghost. The direwolf lifts his head for a moment before returning to lay at Jon’s feet, and Jenny happily pats his fur.

“So,” Jon finally says, splitting the silence like a crack of thunder, “am I the only one who didn’t know about this?”

Arya looks at Ashara and Ser Davos, both of whom are not looking at her brother, and she offers, “I don’t think Rickon does.”

“No, he does,” Gendry mumbles.

“Oh. Then yes.”

Jon gets to his feet so fast, Gendry tenses beside her, but rather than rush the larger man, he begins to pace. “And does your _husband_ know?”

“Yes.” When Jon doesn’t say anything else, she continues, “I was pregnant with Jenny when I married him. I didn’t cuckold him.”

“Is that _why_ you married him, because you were pregnant?” Jon stops, his eyes almost entirely black as he glares at Gendry. “Did he refuse to marry you after he dishonored you?”

Arya snorts. “Please. If anything, _I_ dishonored _him_.”

Ser Davos gives a laugh he quickly tries to turn into a cough, and when Jon turns to glare at the older man, he is the picture of innocence, smiling at his king as if nothing had happened. 

“Gendry didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Clearly he did because you’re the mother of a child that isn’t your husband’s!”

Arya gets to her feet, her own temper getting the best of her. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with my daughter?”

“What?” Jon blinks, glancing down at his niece, now climbing on a patient Ghost. “No! Of course not! It’s not her fault – “

“It’s no one’s fault!” Arya shakes her head, throwing her arms wide. “You have no idea what it was like! I thought Bran and Rickon were dead. I’d just learned the Lannisters forced Sansa to marry the Kingslayer and have his children. The Boltons had Winterfell, the Freys had Riverrun, and no one cared! No one was going to help me! There was no one _left_!” Her voice cracks, but she pushes on, needing him to understand. “And suddenly Aegon was here, and he had the Golden Company behind him and promised to take back Winterfell for me and Sansa. All I had to do was marry him so the North would support him. I didn’t know I was pregnant when I married him, and if I had known you were going to ride down from the Wall and take Winterfell back yourself, mayhaps I would’ve made a different decision, but I was doing the best I could!”

Looking chastened, Jon can only say, “I’m sorry.”

“You just…I’m not a child anymore. I don’t know how to be a highborn lady or a queen or whatever it is you think I’m supposed to be right now. That’s not my life, and it hasn’t been since Ilyn Payne took Father’s head.”

“You still could have told me.”

“Because you’ve taken everything else so well?” She sighs, flinging a hand in Gendry’s direction. “Jon, this is Gendry Waters. He’s King Robert’s bastard, we’ve known each other since the day Father died, and he’s Jenny’s father. And he offered to marry me before we ever even knew about Jenny, so stop thinking he’s not honorable.”

Gendry, sitting uncomfortably in his chair, slowly rises, keeping his head inclined. “I’m sorry for what I said in the yard, your grace – “

“Oh, stop it, his name is Jon!”

“My temper got the best of me,” he rushes on, ignoring Arya’s correction. “I was startled and scared when I saw what happened, but I shouldn’t have – “

Jon’s fist catches Gendry’s jaw hard, sending him sprawling backwards, landing hard back into his chair. Arya gasps, ready to throw herself between them, but Jon is already walking away, shaking his hand with a curse. He grabs a skin of wine off of the table, filling two cups. Grasping one in his left hand, he moves back towards them, offering the cup to Gendry, who accepts it with uncertainty all over his face.

“We all start fresh today. You’ll have a place here so long as you want one. And even if I wanted to send you away, which I don’t, I have a feeling Arya would just bring you back.” He sighs, returning to the table and picking up his own cup. “But you still sleep in the forge.”

Gendry is already nodding as Arya starts to protest.

“You’re still married,” he reminds her, “and it’s not to him. If you want the North to respect Aegon, they’re not going to if you have your…sleeping in your bed. You sort it out with Aegon, you wed Gendry, and _then_ he can come into the castle.”

“You let Meera sleep in the castle, and she and Bran are always making eyes at each other!”

“Bran and Meera don’t have a child together.” Jon bends down, scooping up Jenny, who giggles as her uncle tickles her belly. “I love you, but we have to be smart about this.”

“You’ll help Aegon then? You’ll bring back Sansa and her girls?”

He nods. “Of course, I will. I never planned on leaving Sansa in the South. We have to bring her home, whatever it takes.”

Arya smiles, feeling as if a heavy weight has been lifted off of her chest. “Good.” And then she remembers something. “I sort of promised Tommen Baratheon he could have a place here.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he’s in love with Sansa?”

Jon’s sigh is so heavy, Arya wonders for the first time if he wishes he’d had only brothers.

**Author's Note:**

> Looking for more Arya/Gendry? I'm vixleonard on Tumblr.


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